


Open Your Heart

by Smash_50



Series: Avalon [3]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, It's just Relationships the Fanfic, M/M, Multi, Other, Self-Indulgent, Sonic and the Black Knight, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smash_50/pseuds/Smash_50
Summary: There are many ways to love someone. The residents of Camelot Castle are well aware of this.A series of shorter pieces exploring some of the different relationships of the knights and other members of the court.
Relationships: Everyone & Everyone, Relationships listed on every chapter
Series: Avalon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801990
Comments: 219
Kudos: 119





	1. Sibling Love (Percival & Lamorak)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still love the Lamorak and Percival dynamic, send help.
> 
> I really like the Lazy Genius trope for older Jet/Lamorak. Like he really learns from everything he does, but decides he doesn't care to show it. Meanwhile, Percival is a prodigy, but that doesn't mean she can handle everything.

Having a brother was… strange.

Having never met Lamorak in person until she was twelve, Percival had always regarded him as more of a concept than a person. She had received his letters, had written her own, had heard tales of his feats as a knight at Camelot, all the way across the kingdom, and so he had always seemed more like a storybook hero than someone who lived and breathed. A dream to strive towards, a valorous knight, chivalrous and brave. Something that, as a child, she could reach for, but never catch.

In a way, she was grateful that they hadn’t met in person until not even two years ago. She preferred them knowing each other like this. She preferred him knowing her as the equally brave and capable girl that she was, instead of the confused and miserable boy that she wasn’t.

Not to mention, her aspirations to become a knight might have shattered into pieces if she had met him any sooner and realized that, though he was every bit as mighty as she was told, he was probably the most obnoxious person she had ever and would ever meet.

And he was holding back  **_again._ **

Percival frowned as he blocked yet again, having the nerve to whistle a small tune as he knocked her sword to the side with one of his own, the other one sweeping at her legs. It was the same dirty trick as always; he knew that she had issues with heights 一 especially after she had almost fallen to her death into the Grail Volcano 一 and that she never did jump particularly high, and that she never felt safe enough to keep striking until both feet were back on solid ground. It was incredibly frustrating, sparring with him, but sometimes it felt downright condescending.

“Will you stop that?” she demanded, frustration edging into her tone in a way she hated.

“Stop what?” he returned, carefree as a breeze and so, so _irritating._

“Holding back and using the same dirty tricks over and over again.” Percival dashed backwards, holding out Laevatein and pointing it at Lamorak’s throat. “I don’t have the patience for your games, Brother.”

“You’re not ready for me at my best,” he shot back with a sneer. “Not even close.”

Percival tried to keep her anger in check, but she felt the hair around her spine start to rise. “I’ve sparred with stronger knights than you,” she retorted, and Lamorak’s demeanor changed instantly, his feathers ruffling as his sneer turned into more of a snarl.

_ Good. _

“Have you already forgotten that your big brother is one of the strongest knights?” he demanded, raising both of his blades, and Percival scoffed.

“I’ve yet to see proof of that.”

Lamorak bristled even more, and both siblings lowered themselves into a fighting stance. “Then, dear sister, today I’ll give you all the proof you can handle.”

_ Perfect. _

Percival dashed forward, going at full speed, knowing that anything less would be an insult, and Lamorak responded in kind, meeting her halfway in an instant. Percival always prided herself on being quick, but Lamorak’s speed was on par with her own. Their blades met again and again, and in no time at all, Percival was sweating beneath her armor, being pushed to a new limit she wasn’t used to. A strike, a dodge, another blow to the chest, and yet Lamorak seemed as though he was still only starting. It made her nervous.

She had every right to be, for the next thing Percival knew, the ground had disappeared from below her feet, and she was rising in the air, weightless and out of control.

Panic seized her as she stopped thinking about the fight and started thrashing in the air, frightened cries escaping her despite every attempt to hold them back, but the ground kept getting further and further away, and the sensation of **absolutely nothing** around her was a grim reminder that, at any point, the world could come crashing back up to meet her, and she was powerless, powerless, powerless...

“Percival! Percival, calm down!”

And Lamorak was floating beside her, looking concerned instead of angry, and Percival couldn’t even feel embarrassed through her panic.

“It’s okay, the fight’s over, it’s okay.” He held on to her, and she gripped onto his shoulders, desperate for anything solid as they kept afloat above the ground, and slowly they descended back to earth. Once their feet touched solid ground, Percival lowered herself on her hands and knees, taking comfort in knowing she wasn’t in the air anymore, breathing heavily until the panic subsided, and Lamorak stood by her, blissfully silent as she recovered.

“What… the  _ hell _ … was that?” she demanded once she felt well enough to talk.

“Did I never mention it?” he asked, somehow managing to sound unconcerned and cocky at the same time. “I control gravity in the same way you control fire.”

Percival shook her head, staggering to her feet. “No. You’ve  _ never _ mentioned it, and you’ve never shown it either.” She grit her teeth, anger starting to boil once more. “Until just now.”

“Why are you upset?” he snapped. “I did exactly what you asked me to do!”

“Yes, but I told you to stop with your dirty tricks!” Percival snapped back, unable to control her anger anymore. It burned inside her like an inferno, and threatened to burst forth and catch the hawk, setting him alight. “You  _ know _ I have problems with heights, and you still insist on using that against me! And that… that was too far!”

“How else will you get past that fear if you don’t face it?!” Lamorak screeched, throwing one of his blades into the ground, where it stuck and stayed upright. “Do you really think I’m using cheap tricks to win against you? I can win against you with my own skills, thank you very much, but I don’t spar with you to win, Percival, I spar with you because I can’t keep watching you hold  _ yourself _ back!”

Percival’s mouth opened, but she had no retort. She didn’t want to register her brother’s words, but the pieces clicked into place too quickly for her to handle. So every time he aimed at her legs, every time he forced her to jump… it wasn’t just an underhanded tactic to give him an edge? He wanted her to get used to it?

Percival lowered her head, shame welling up inside her, mixing with the anger that still hadn’t faded, turning into a stew of awful feelings. She couldn’t look at him, too frustrated with him and with herself, too embarrassed at her own inability to face her fears and grow, at her childish assumption that her egotistical older brother only cared to defeat her.

A sigh sounded, followed by a shuffling, and then Lamorak was standing next to her. “I’m… sorry, Perce,” he whispered, almost too quietly to hear, and it shocked her to her core, because in the almost two years of knowing him in person, she had never heard him apologize for anything. “I went too far.”

In response, she leaned against his arm, and for a long time, neither moved, nor made a sound.

“Lamorak,” Percival finally said once she had control over her emotions again, “why have you never used this power before?”

Lamorak grunted, careless attitude returning as though nothing had happened. “It’s too much of a hassle to use.”

“Of course,” she replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Now tell me the real reason.”

Lamorak clicked his tongue in displeasure. “You're a real nuisance today, Perce,” he said, but Percival could hear pride hidden in his tone. “Fine, you caught me. I choose not to use it. It is not something I ever want to rely on, and it is not something I want people to know about whenever I come at them. Being a great knight isn’t just about controlling your abilities, it’s about still being great, even without them.”

_ I misjudged you, Brother. _

“I see,” she murmured, lifting one hand and conjuring up a small flame. She _did_ rely on her powers in most battles, and though she had faith in her swordsmanship… perhaps this was a lesson she needed to take to heart. She extinguished the flame, readjusting her grip on Laevatein, and turned back to him. “Are you willing to spar one more round with me?” she asked. “At our… usual level of practice?”

Lamorak let out a loud, dramatic sigh. “I suppose,” he said, already picking up his blades. “But no more whining.”

Percival resisted the urge to huff and held her sword aloft. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She knew she still had a lot to learn, and she knew that Lamorak would be there to guide her, in his own way, using his own methods. With new insight into her fighting patterns and weaknesses, she dashed forward once more time.

_ I’ll make you proud. I swear it. _


	2. Love Born From Nature (Gaheris & Many)

As far back as he could remember, Gaheris had avoided conflict like the plague. When he was a child, growing up in Angel Village, he had done his best to be kind and forgive, even when the other children were cruel.

“You’re not one of us,” they would say. “You’re strange. You look wrong.”

And Gaheris couldn’t bring himself to argue, looking at the sea of echidnas circling him. He was different. He wasn’t really, truly one of them…

And then Gawain would run forth, fists flying, until the others ran screaming away.

“That’s my brother!” Gawain would scream, face twisted in rage. “None of you can speak to him like that!”

From behind him, Gareth would put a hand on his arm, stroking lightly with her thumb until Gawain was finished. Inevitably, Gaheris’ older brother would turn back and, still alight with anger, start demanding to know why he never fought back. Why he never stood his ground, claiming the least of what he owed in respect and dignity.

“I can’t help that I’m different,” Gaheris would mumble, looking away, and Gawain would only grow more frustrated.

“Exactly! You can’t help that you’re different, and so no one should treat you so shamefully! You are one of us, and until you confront them, they will refuse to treat you as they should! Get angry, Gaheris! I cannot keep doing so for you!”

As Gawain stormed off, Gaheris wondered how he could ever explain that forgiving was so much easier for him.

Gareth would finally speak up, voice soft and warm. “I despise how they treat you as well, but I understand your hesitance. Gawain only speaks from frustration; he grows weary of running to your defense.”

“I never ask him to,” Gaheris replied, watching the red figure of their brother disappear into the crowd. “I think that, if they find no more joy in taunting me, they will stop.”

“They might,” Gareth said. “They might not. But remember, Brother… to be so gentle can be dangerous. People can, and will, take advantage of that.”

The words had made him wilt. They made sense, but all the same… Gaheris preferred to love and forgive over battling again and again, creating an endless cycle of pain.

“However, if balanced correctly, gentleness and kindness are wonderful gifts to have," Gareth had continued. "In a world determined to make us freeze our hearts, the warmest of us have the greatest effects on others. Never harden your heart, brother. Yours is a wonderful one.”

And Gaheris brightened up immediately, for he knew no heart warmer than his sister’s.

_ What wonderful siblings he was blessed with. _

* * *

Leaving Angel Village was strange. Leaving behind all the customs he was raised with, leaving behind the sea of faces he knew, heading into a world of new ones, was something he didn’t quite know how to respond to.

He was brought before King Arthur along with Gareth, at his brother’s request, and before he knew it, he was a knight.

It puzzled him.

“Your Majesty?” he asked one day when he found the king pacing in the hallway, during a rare moment of solitude. “May I ask you a question?”

“Aside from that one, I presume?” King Arthur returned, and Gaheris laughed at his humor. What an odd but charming king he was.

“Yes, aside from that one.”

“Go ahead.”

Gaheris took a breath, wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say; he hadn’t anticipated this meeting, and had no time to prepare. “I was wondering… what made you decide to knight me? I am not a great warrior like Gawain. I am not very strong, nor very fast. I am durable, but surely that will only occasionally be useful. Why then…?”

King Arthur looked at him oddly for a moment before his face relaxed again. “Do you remember the title I gave you?” he asked, and Gaheris nodded.

“The Peaceful Knight.”

“Exactly. I have many strong knights, many fast knights, smart knights and so on… but I need peacemakers as well. I need people who will go into battle with the intent to stop it with words and reasoning. I need knights who won’t turn so quickly to violence… and I need someone to set a good example for the others.” King Arthur grinned at him and clapped his shoulder. “And that knight is you. I cannot explain it, but when I look at you, I know that you have it in you to turn the greatest battles on their heads with only your words. There’s greatness in that, great like the strongest of the strong or the fastest of the fast. You’re a knight because you’re a knight that I need, Sir Gaheris.”

And Gaheris beamed, because he no longer felt any doubt within himself.

_ What a fantastic king he was privileged to follow. _

* * *

As a knight, he held his shield with pride. He was a protector, someone for the helpless to hide behind. He still avoided trading blows, but had learned to hit back when it was needed. He was no longer the odd one in his village, but part of a unit, with formidable warriors and scholars and tradesmen. He had his place, and he no longer needed to fight for it.

Gaheris the Peaceful Knight. A protector. The shield of the Round Table.

That’s why he had to protect Gawain. That’s why he risked his safety for his brother’s life. It went further than family ties; it was his role, it was who he was.

And he would do it again in a heartbeat, sacrifice his other leg, or an arm, if it meant he could keep him safe. If he could keep any of them safe.

It wasn’t easy to adjust to a new way of living; Merlina had done an astounding job at healing him, but it wasn’t the same as it used to be. Gaheris could walk, and run, but not as fast nor as far as he used to. He couldn’t stand for too long without shifting his weight to his stronger leg. On rainy days, especially in the early spring, pain would flare up, and he would need a cane to help take weight off his leg and allow him to keep his balance.

That was okay. That was something he could live with.

What  _ was _ hard was when it happened in a dangerous situation, and he would find himself unable to shield anyone, not quick enough or too pained to jump into the fray and do what he was supposed to do.

More than once he found himself scooped up in Sir Lancelot’s arms, carried away during a retreat when he found that he could not run, and every time he would be able to see inside the small gap between the Ultimate Knight’s visor and see his mouth, pressed so thin that his chin trembled, and Gaheris knew that Sir Lancelot still hadn’t forgiven himself for what had happened. Still felt the pain and the weight of his actions.

“I’m sorry,” the hedgehog would whisper as he carried him through trees and across fields. “I’m so sorry…”

And Gaheris forgave him, every time. It still frustrated Gawain how quickly he had come to forgive Sir Lancelot for injuring him so badly, but it was in his nature. Gaheris was gentle. Gaheris hated conflict. Gaheris was a protector, and Sir Lancelot needed to be protected from himself, sometimes.

Gaheris hoped that, with enough warmth, Sir Lancelot would one day find peace as well.

_ How blessed he was, to so easily find peace within himself. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still know so little about Mighty but I adore Gaheris.


	3. Complicated Love (Enid & Geraint)

Enid couldn’t really say when or how everything between them had started. He had taken an apprenticeship at Camelot, working under a man almost a decade his junior, had fallen into a routine… It had taken them until well within his third week at the castle to meet.

The way Geraint spoke was infuriating; the words flowed like music, carefully crafted by a silver tongue hidden behind a mask, leaving any who heard them with a sense of malaise that refused to leave until hours later, when one thought back to what had been said and realized that none of it made sense.

It had happened, every time, without fail 一 beautiful, nonsensical words, uttered by what had to have been a madman 一 until the day he had heard Geraint well and truly pissed off as he traded insults with Lancelot.

It was quite the thing to hear; the smooth baritone breaking into sharp vocal jabs, carefully chosen words devolving into petty, childish insults and growls. Enid had listened, astounded, as Sir Geraint of the Round Table sounded as though he were seconds away from throwing a tantrum.

After that, it was easier to listen to his words, not to the way he said them. Enid heard the contradictory statements he said, the vagueness in his otherwise beautiful language, phrases that sounded impressive in their delivery, but held absolutely no substance. It was as though he was saying anything, absolutely anything, to seem impressive or in control, even if it meant going against his own earlier statements.

When he realized that that was  _ exactly _ what Geraint was doing, his understanding of him began to change and deepen.

Then, he noticed how often he was listening to Geraint pontificate, granting him his attention, though not without challenge; some of the things the jackal said were so incredibly infuriating that Enid couldn’t stop himself from arguing. They began arguing very often. They argued _daily_ until Enid couldn’t fully remember a time in Castle Camelot when they  _ hadn’t. _

All the same, it wasn’t until Geraint’s blatant pursuit of him at the king’s wedding that Enid realized that he was being courted in a very, _very_ confusing way.

Stranger yet, it was  _ working. _

Their interactions breathed a new life into him, granting him a safe place to let go of his annoyances with little consequence; every time they parted ways, Enid felt lighter, happier, as though years and years of built up anger and grief and confusion were shedding away from his soul. He started to look forward to their meetings even more, actively seeking out the reclusive knight, whether to fight or to listen, he didn’t particularly care.

Things shifted again when Geraint started listening to him as well. It started small, the occasional excited blurb about the newest thing he and the others were working on in the forge, a long-forgotten memory conjured up at one of the words the other would say, an offhand mention of a like or a dislike. When before, Geraint would jump at the opportunity to interrupt or ignore him, he now stayed silent, encouraging Enid to talk more and more with every passing day until the wolf was spilling forth his darkest memories, his most earnest wishes and dreams, every thought and emotion that he never dared share with those he had grown up with. Sometimes it was enough to make him cry.

Once, after a particularly painful memory resurfaced and reworked its way into his conscious mind, Enid did indeed find himself in tears. Geraint had lifted his chin with one hand, the other flicking the tears away. He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous.

_ “I’ll kill the world three times over before I let that happen to you again.” _

Enid was sure that he would, at the very least, legitimately try. Geraint was terrifying in that way.

Terrifying, but in a predictable way. Infuriating, but in a fun way. Self-absorbed, but in a way that made Enid know that he was cared for as well. Geraint was a man born from contradiction, whose very existence served to bring him joy, anger, fear, comfort, a cacophony of yes and no, black and white, real and fake, all boiled down into one knight who held far too much power in his hands and could never seem satisfied with that, for reasons the wolf was only beginning to figure out.

Enid spent longer in the forge after that, working on his own personal project. A pair of swords, identical save for the grip, the blade red like a ruby, or one of Geraint’s illusion-spawning cubes, or Enid’s fur. He would wake up early to keep making them, not wanting to miss his work or outings with friends or meals or the time he spent with his lover. Once they were done, he swallowed his nerves, found the jackal, and presented the swords to him.

_ “Take only one if you’ll marry me.” _

Geraint’s one visible eye had widened, and Enid stood firm as the seconds dragged on while the knight recovered from his shock. Geraint reached forth and took one of the offered swords.

Then he took the other one, to Enid’s dismay.

Then the handle of the sword was presented to him, and Geraint’s unbreakable silver tongue faltered and stumbled as he put forth his own request.

_ “Take it back if… i-if you’ll have me as well.” _

The wolf had stolen back his sword in a flash, frowning at how Geraint had managed to overcomplicate his proposal, but frustrations were quickly forgotten as he was embraced, just for a split second, before his fiance was gone in the blink of an eye.

Somewhere nearby, in a direction he couldn’t pinpoint, Enid could hear Geraint’s laugh, wild and maniacal as always, but unmistakably ecstatic in a way he had never heard before, and the wolf felt peace.

There was nothing peaceful about being Geraint’s husband, yet the feeling persisted, unyielding even with time. Even when Enid came to work, late because of whatever newest ridiculous and distracting speech his spouse had made, he wasn’t truly angry as he complained. Once, his co-apprentice Dindrane asked him why he didn’t just leave Geraint if he frustrated him so much, and the idea was so repulsive that Enid had to set down his tools.

_ “No. Why would I ever do that?” _

And Dindrane seemed to realize she had assumed too much and apologized. Enid couldn’t entirely blame her; his and Geraint’s love was a complicated thing. It was built on challenge and the struggle to understand, to see through the deceptions and the illusions to find what was real.

The way Geraint listened to him was real. The way they bickered with no true malice was real. The way Geraint would wake up, late at night, thrashing from a nightmare was real. The way he held on to Enid, half-asleep, whispering ‘You’re still here’ over and over again until sleep came to take him again was real. The way he never talked about it the mornings afterwards, never confirming the rumors Enid heard time and time again of loss and pain and loneliness, even though Enid could  _ tell… _ that was all real.

Geraint loved him. Enid hadn’t doubted it once since his own engagement sword was presented right back to him. The jackal had retired his old blade from the day of their engagement, only bringing the ruby red blade into battle from then on; his old sword, the once he had used since his training days, which had served him in countless battles, hung on the wall, a decoration serving only to remind them of days past.

Geraint may have not been an easy man to fall in love with, but Enid was no stranger to hardship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for you, RC.


	4. Unconditional Love (Omega & Lancelot & Guinevere)

He didn’t understand everything. There wasn’t any way he could; those two communicated in a very different way, with sounds falling from their mouths just as much as with the way they moved. Luckily, he was starting to pick up on a few things.

One progression of sounds was meant to signify himself. That was the first thing he caught on to. Oh-Meh-Gah. Whenever he heard that, his attention would snap over to whoever was making the noises, just in case they needed him for something. More often than not, they just wanted to rub his face. That was fine; face rubbing felt good.

Then he started to recognize two more noise combinations: 'Gwen' and 'Lans'. Sometimes those noises had more noises after them, but those two always happened at the beginning, or alone. He gradually put it together: the one with the wings was Gwen and the one with the spikes was Lans. Gwen talked more, and Lans always seemed to follow her lead.

Gwen was the leader. Omega understood that, even if he didn’t always understand what she wanted to tell him.

Omega communicated to his fellow dragons in a different way. He communicated aggression with raised spikes and growls and blowing smoke. He communicated happiness with his tail, smacking it against the ground when the feeling of joy exploded within him so strongly that he couldn’t stop the motion. When he was upset, he hid, when he was confused, he raised his head and wings. A combination of movements, of scents, of noises 一 though nowhere near as many as the other two made 一 composed his understanding of the world and the others in it.

They were starting to catch on to his way of speaking, too, just as slowly.

It made him happy.

There were more things they were building to bridge the communication gap between them, like the whistle they made whenever they came back to his cave; when he heard it, he dashed out to greet them, thrilled that his small ones were back. That whistle was one of the happiest noises he knew… it was only when the other dragons had learned it that he found an issue with the sound. Every once in a while, another dragon would mimic the whistle, and when he came running only to find another dragon taunting him with raised wings spread wide, and head cocked, it filled him with a burning rage.

How  **dare** they pretend to be Gwen and Lans?

A small fight and a powerful breath of flame was always enough to teach the other dragons a lesson. Omega was young and powerful, perfectly capable of killing another one of his kind for their trickery. Before long, the others had stopped imitating his friends, and the whistle became a happy noise once more.

Sometimes the other dragons displayed their disapproval of him allowing Gwen and Lans to sit upon him, clinging to his back as he soared through the sky. Gwen would always make loud, happy noises, interspersed with a snort, and sometimes he would hear a softer version of the same from Lans. Those noises made Omega happy, too.

Another burst of fire was enough to make those disapproving dragons silence themselves. It didn’t matter what they thought; Omega saw no shame in allowing his small ones to sit upon him and direct him. It made them happy, and that made him happy.

It wasn’t as though he let absolutely _every_ small one do the same, either. Gwen and Lans had a lot of small people, like the ones who helped his wing stop hurting 一 Omega refused to growl at those two, but he was less sure about head rubs with them 一 and two more spikey ones like Lans. There was a blue one, who often smelled like Lans and Gwen, and a gray one, who smelled mostly like Lans. Sometimes Omega would allow those two to rub his head, but only at the request of Gwen and Lans.

Gwen and Lans tried to get him to like a lot of their brethren, but Omega was a dragon. He was protective and defensive by nature. There was only so much his instincts would allow, and slowly they seemed to get it. At the very least, Omega would resist the urge to snarl on sight. He could do that.

But Gwen and Lans were very special. So special that a new kind of instinct had awoken within Omega. When they spoke his name, he wanted to follow them. When they rubbed his face, his eyes closed with pleasure and his tail thumped with delight. He trusted them without a second thought… He was willing to leave his hoard to the side if they needed him.

Treasure, after all, was replaceable. Those two were not.

And so Omega was happy to listen to their mouth sounds, trying to decipher what they wanted. He was happy to repeat his own motions, communicating his feelings until they understood as well. He was happy to nuzzle at their bodies, asking for more rubs and happy sounds so that he could be happy with them as well.

They lit a new kind of fire inside the dragon, one that married his joy and protectiveness into something so wonderfully warm that he wanted to bask in it for as long as they all lived. He smelled and heard and felt the same feelings in his companions, and he couldn’t help but thump his tail over and over again when Gwen and Lans would bask in the warmth with him.

Omega wondered if this feeling had a noise in their mouth communication.

He hoped to learn and recognize it one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breathe if you love Omega.


	5. Love Forged Through Circumstance (Smithy & Many)

“I’m very sorry for the short notice,” Lancelot apologized, breathless as he let go of Galahad’s hand, letting the child roam free in the forge. “A last minute emergency came up and--”

“It’s fine,” Smithy insisted. “He’s always welcome here.”

The knight bowed his head. “I am in your debt,” he said, and though Smithy wanted to tell him otherwise, he held his tongue; he could argue with Lancelot over this another time.

“Galahad!” Lancelot called out, and the seven year old boy’s hand whipped away from the assortment of weapons lining the walls. “I will be back as soon as I am able. Remember what I told you about playing around with weapons.”

“Not until I’m nine,” the boy grumbled, crossing his arms and pouting.

A smile ghosted across the knight’s face. “It won’t be too much longer, now.” Then, to the both of them, “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Goodbye,” Smithy bid him, while Galahad dropped his disappointment in a flash and ran over to hug his father’s waist in farewell.

It was sweet, and it reminded Smithy of the days of his own youth, back when he had met Arthur and his parents all those years ago…

Once Lancelot had departed, Smithy turned his attention back to young Galahad, whose eyes were once again drawn to the impressive array of swords and daggers and axes that decorated the walls of the forge. His hand lifted, fingers twitching, as though he yearned to hold them, and Smithy had to force back a laugh.

Lancelot  _ did _ have a point. It wouldn’t be too much longer before Galahad would be allowed to start his training, and though Smithy knew he was not allowed to let the child play with the pieces in the forge, it didn’t mean that absolutely _everything_ having to do with weapons was off-limits.

“Galahad, how would you like to design your own future sword?”

Wide golden eyes turned to him, and in an instant the young hedgehog was floating by his shoulder, grasping at his clothing and chattering excitedly as the fox led him to his workstation, littered with papers covered in inked plans and designs.

Smithy did have other projects to work on, but this was _Galahad_.

He drew out a fresh sheet of paper, marking it at the top as  **Galahad’s Sword.** He paused, turning to the eager child. “You do want a sword, correct?”

The child nodded vigorously. “Just like Father, but… Mmmm…” Galahad’s face scrunched up as he thought, and Smithy waited patiently as he thought it out. “Not so long as Father’s sword,” he decided.

The blacksmith nodded and made a note in the margin. “Any shape or kind? Is there one on the walls that you like?”

The child’s head whipped side to side as he looked over his options. “Perhaps… Oh! A triangle!”

Smithy resisted the urge to laugh in response to the odd request. “A triangle?”

“My favorite shape,” Galahad explained, as though that cleared everything up. He put his hands together, splaying his thumbs and forefingers while tucking the rest away, and made a long triangular shape. “Like so!”

The scratching of the pen sounded through the forge as Smithy bemusedly drew a large, long triangle on the paper, adding smaller design details as Galahad kept throwing forth ideas, until what ended up on his page looked more like a very large dagger than a sword, but the child seemed pleased with the result, and Smithy couldn’t say it was a bad design.

It was unique. It was Galahad’s.

He would ask Lancelot’s permission to start working on it as soon as he could.

“Smithy?” The child tugged at Smithy’s arm, bringing him out of his thoughts. “How did you become so great at making swords?”

“Practice,” the fox answered, leaning back on his workbench, supporting himself with his hands. “But my parents were smiths as well, so you can say that it’s in my blood.”

Galahad shot him a confused look. “I didn’t know the Pendragons were smiths.”

“Not them,” Smithy explained. “My birthparents. They owned a forge, and that’s where I lived before the Pendragons took me in.”

“Oh! So you knew your birthparents?”

Smithy frowned. “Not well, no,” he replied truthfully. His earliest clear memory was of the moment right after their death, when he was still very young and frightened and had no idea why he was suddenly all alone in the world.

He remembered running, his dress catching on bramble thickets and his shoes sinking into the mud, stumbling through the rain as though he would run away from the terrifying reality that stood before him, a three year old child, already on his own, cold and lost and afraid. He remembered one shoe getting caught in the soft ground and falling flat on his face as hot tears spilled forth while ice cold rain soaked him to the bone.

Then, as circumstance would have it, a boy had found him. Arthur Pendragon, only eight years old, had been the one to pull him off of the ground and into shelter, and before he knew it, into a new life entirely.

If Arthur hadn’t crossed his path that day, Smithy had no idea where he would be now. Would he still be working with metals and fire, living up to his parents’ legacy? Would he be unable to face the forge, giving himself up to an orphanage with nowhere else to go?

But circumstance had been in his favor, and thanks to that, he had his brother, and his parents. Thanks to circumstance, he had his job, his purpose, his support. 

He had Lancelot, and he had Galahad. He had his friends.

It was, in the most mysterious of ways, the greatest life he could have hoped for.

* * *

Having apprentices was another bit of circumstance that Smithy was grateful for. He had always feared that no one younger than he would care for an apprenticeship, and his searches had, time and time again, proven that fear correct, until, out of the blue, Enid and Dindrane had stepped forth, not caring about his youth, only with the desire to learn and the ambition to succeed.

Enid was a clever designer; his sketches were precise, clear, and detailed, and though his craftsmanship was nowhere near as skilled, he was making progress. Dindrane, on the other hand, was a master at collecting and handling raw materials, researching and determining the best techniques to use, and testing them out.  They were a hardworking pair, doing their best to learn the ropes and pull their weight as the threat of the Saxons lingered, and the conversations the three of them shared were delightful, as Smithy was unused to having such creative types and like minds in his workspace. To have friends a little more like himself.

Life was good.

On one cloudy morning, Galahad knocked on the door of the forge, clad in his armor, still young and bright-eyed, though more responsible now than before.

“Galahad,” Smithy greeted jovially as he held open the door to the forge for him. “What brings you along?”

“A few reasons,” the boy admitted. “First of all, to say hello to everyone again. It’s been a while since I’ve visited this place.”

That got a few smiles and murmured ‘hello’s back; they often saw the young knight in the dining hall, and though his trips to the forge were rare, none of the smiths were strangers to Galahad in the slightest.

“I also bring some news. There was an attack on the kingdom of Soleanna just last night.” The youth frowned, eyes darkening with anger. “We suspect the Saxons had something to do with it.”

“Oh my…” Enid whispered, setting down his pen, while Dindrane sported a frown of her own.

“...Do you think we will be facing attacks here as well?”

“The king thinks we might,” Galahad admitted. “Or, at least, that we will be sending out some troops to support the vulnerable kingdoms.”

“In other words,” Smithy surmised, “we might have our hands full with weapon and armor orders soon.”

Galahad nodded. “Right, which is why I figure now is as good a time as any to replenish my reserves.”

“Reserves?” Dindrane asked.

Smithy smiled fondly. “Galahad here takes very good care of his weapon. I gifted him a maintenance kit for his tenth birthday and he’s been caring for his sword ever since.”

“Is that why we almost never get orders from him?” Enid asked. “I thought it was because he preferred using his powers.”

“It is a bit of both,” the knight admitted, setting down a chest containing his weapon maintenance tools. Inside was a cloth clotted with polish and a worn whetstone for sharpening the blade, among other tools for holding, testing and comparing. “I know you all have a great deal of work to do, so I do my best to make sure that I do not add to that.”

“How thoughtful.” Dindrane stepped over, glancing over Galahad’s tools and doing her own assessment. “But may I remind you that this is our job?”

“I know,” Galahad replied. “But I started this back when it was only Smithy looking after all us knights and soldiers.”

Dindrane laughed and patted the boy’s back. “Fine, I suppose I can’t argue with that. Now let’s get you some replacement tools, the ones you have are worn down.”

“It looks like you could use a new rag as well,” Enid mused. “I believe we have some spares.”

And as Smithy watched his apprentices do their best to support the boy who was like a nephew to him, he was glad that circumstance had brought them all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any dip in quality, I've been distracted lately.
> 
> Smithy being Galahad's uncle/babysitter is beautiful and I love it.


	6. Redefined Love (Kay & Lamorak & Dindrane)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for parental neglect.

Kay knew he was stupid. He knew because he had people to tell him so, and they would know better than he did. Whenever he tried to follow along to a lengthy explanation, the words wouldn't immediately make sense, until his father sighed and shook his head.

“Perhaps you should stick to your strengths, son. I don’t think this is for you.”

Or when he tried to read, and suddenly the letters would mix up, or one would look like another, and entire words shifted into new ones until Kay had no idea what he was reading, and his mother groaned at him.

“Kay, sweetie, you weren’t meant to be a scholar. Why not stick to fighting like those other boys?”

Kay was stupid, but he was strong. His parents were right, and he needed to listen to them.

They wouldn’t tell him these things if they didn’t love him.

* * *

Kay was just shy of eighteen years old when he started his knight training. It played to his strengths: hitting things very hard and listening to someone who knew better. Or at least, that was what he thought.

It turned out that there were plenty new things to learn, and just like all throughout his life, the words didn’t sink in immediately, and the notes he had to read would jumble up, and Kay grew frustrated with everything. He snapped at his fellow trainees whenever they spoke to him, jealous at their progress and their capabilities, and he found himself focusing all his efforts into being the strongest and most destructive there was, because what else could he be?

One day, as he was struggling to saddle up his horse for jousting training, he heard a voice pipe up behind him.

“That’s not how it’s done.”

Kay whipped around, ready to bash the head in of whomever had made that remark. Looking up at him, cocky and unimpressed, was thirteen year old Lamorak.

“Shut your mouth, punk, before I shut it for you.”

While others would take this opportunity to walk away, the hawk stood his ground, narrowing his eyes. “It’s not that hard.”

Kay was about ready to launch this brat off of a cliff, but then…

“Here. Watch.”

And Kay watched as this scrawny kid walked silently around his horse, saddling it up and preparing it to ride, not saying a word, and somehow, something clicked in his head. Somehow it made sense _now_ , when it didn’t before.

Kay returned to his own horse, recalling what he had seen, and with only a few fumbles and mistakes, he saddled up his horse faster than he ever thought possible.

“See?” Lamorak called over. “Anyone can do it.”

That was the first time anyone had implied that Kay could be capable of anything aside from hitting things, and the albatross found himself following the hawk around from then on.

* * *

After they were knighted, Lamorak was still the leader of the two. He was some kind of genius, catching on to things more quickly than Kay could ever hope to do, and sometimes he would reexplain them, and they would make sense.

Well, sometimes. Usually only when Lamorak could demonstrate what they were supposed to learn, and only when Lamorak cared enough to show it.

Lamorak loved horses and riding, and so Kay found himself becoming well-attuned to them as well. When he was considered the second-best rider that the Round Table had, said so by King Arthur himself, he was stunned.

He never thought he would be good at anything more than swinging a sword. He had never thought that he could catch on to things, or that they could be easy.

He knew he had Lamorak to thank for that.

* * *

As the years passed, Kay started to connect a few more dots.

First, that he learned more through watching than through words. Lamorak was one of the few who demonstrated things without speaking, and seemed to understand that Kay needed silence to process what he was seeing. He was the one who silenced others when Kay needed a moment to piece things together.

Second, that he trusted Lamorak without a second thought. He relied on his leadership and his understanding of everything to move himself forward. There were others, like Tristan, who also commanded his silent respect and loyalty, but none quite in the way Lamorak did.

Third, that he never seemed to function well without Lamorak there to help him, but that was fine. He was stupid, and Lamorak was smart. Of course he needed him.

Of course.

* * *

When Dindrane came along, Kay was amazed at how easily she fit in with them. She used big words that threw Lamorak for a loop, understood concepts that neither of them dared to touch, and yet she found her place comfortably as a follower for Lamorak’s lead as well.

“I can keep people in line,” she had said one day, “but that doesn’t mean I want to be the line-leader.”

Kay didn’t know what that meant when she said it, but as he half-listened to her berate them for how poorly they treated their equipment and how they didn’t look after themselves correctly, among many other things, he felt as though he was starting to understand.

* * *

One day, after Kay struggled to read a message aloud to the smiths, Dindrane pulled him aside.

“Is it difficult to read?” she asked, and Kay glared at her, unwilling to answer. Dindrane took the message, examined the handwriting, and appeared to mull something over.

When she spoke, suddenly she was speaking slower, clearer, and much more to the point.

“Do words and letters get mixed up when you read them?”

_How did she know that?_ In his surprise, Kay swallowed his pride and nodded.

“Do you need to take more time to read?”

“I stopped trying,” Kay said, his bad mood worsening. “I don’t need to be reminded how stupid I am.”

But Dindrane shook her head, looking disturbed by his words. “It’s the same situation as one of my mothers, and she’s the smartest person I know.”

The words were like an earthquake, shaking everything that Kay had always assumed was an indisputable truth. “I’m not the only one?” he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Dindrane shook her head again. “Sometimes she needs more time to read, or someone to read for her.” She paused for a moment as Kay let the information sink in. “She understands better when she hears words than when she reads them.”

Kay’s heart sank. “I must be stupid, for I still have trouble when people speak.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Kay. You just understand things in a different way.”

It was the first time in all his life that someone had told him outright that he wasn’t an idiot, and it shocked him to his core.

And yet, when he considered it, he remembered how much easier it was to understand things by watching them. How abstract concepts remained abstract but actions had always made more sense.

How he had only given up on himself because others had done so, first.

“Do you think… I could learn to read better?” he asked as a road of possibility finally presented itself to him, after thirty years of believing one didn’t exist.

Dindrane smiled at him. “We can try, but only if you stop calling yourself stupid.” She held out a hand. “Deal?”

“...Deal.”

They shook on it.

* * *

Kay couldn’t imagine a life without Lamorak and Dindrane in it. For the first half of his life so far, he had never believed in himself, in the possibility of growth, and then those two had come in and proved him otherwise in two very different ways.

He knew he wasn’t done growing; he knew he still relied too heavily on Lamorak’s lead, and his reading lessons with Dindrane were helping, albeit slowly. However, now he was wondering just how far he could go, and how much more he could learn.

He didn’t tell himself he was stupid, not anymore, but sometimes the thought still crept up on him.

“That’s the last of it,” Dindrane grunted, heaving the last box of supplies into the cart destined for Soleanna; Avalon had been steadily sending materials for rebuilding and troops to help defend the kingdom while it recovered from their attack. “Now, you boys had better come back home safely, do you hear me?”

Lamorak scoffed. “As though we would ever lose any battle that comes our way. Right, Kay?”

He nodded, and Dindrane sighed. “You really must work on your ego, Lamorak,” she chided. “It will get you killed one day.”

“What’s this now, Dindrane? Don’t you trust me to survive with everything I have?”

“Of course I do,” the swallow replied. “But I’ll always be concerned for the both of you.”

Lamorak closed his eyes and grunted. Dindrane pressed a kiss to his cheek in farewell, and though Lamorak grumbled, he allowed it. The swallow then went over to Kay, tapping his arm in a silent request for him to lean down, and then kissing his shoulder when he decided not to.

As the knights mounted their horses, Dindrane called out after them, “Farewell, men! Make me proud!”

“You’re such a parent, Drane!” Lamorak called back, but he raised one hand to wave goodbye.

It got Kay thinking about his parents, and about his friends. He thought about how he could go days without thinking of his parents, and yet Lamorak and Dindrane were on his mind every day. Perhaps he had never loved his parents, and perhaps they had never loved him either.

Kay still wasn’t entirely sure what love should be, but whatever this was that he had with Lamorak and Dindrane felt like it could be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Kay as dyslexic, with difficulty processing both written and spoken phonemes. This work is not beta read, so if I've poorly written or represented this, please let me know.
> 
> Also I headcanon all of the Bablyon Rogues as aromantic (Aroguemantics, if you will) and though I'm not going to write that down as explicitly canon in this series, that's how I see them. And yes, I gave Dindrane two mothers.


	7. Undefined Love (Bedivere & Bors & Elyan)

Bedivere had always been an early riser. Once the light of day hit his closed eyelids, his mind would become alert and his body would follow suit. Grogginess wasn’t uncommon, but all the same, his body refused to rest once the day had started.

Some days, it was a living nightmare to deal with, especially after a bad night’s sleep, but lately, it had become more of a blessing, because Elyan was an early riser as well.

Every morning, when he wasn’t working, Bedivere would find himself outside as the sun continued to rise, watching the child fly around, spinning in circles until he got dizzy and fell over, before he stood back up, laughing, and started the process all over again. 

Some days, especially after his accident, were very tough. There were times when the uphill battle he was fighting, the battle for peace and protection, felt like nothing more than a fleeting dream they all shared, beautiful but intangible, never to become reality... but seeing the boy dance around with blissful abandon reminded him why he did everything he did. Why he was a knight.

It was hard to say exactly what Elyan was to him. Bedivere knew he had no claim over the child, and yet he watched over him like a father, or a very involved uncle. Bors had never asked him to do that. He did it of his own accord.

Sometimes he felt like an intruder, in a way. Someone pushing in on the relationship of a father and his son and trying to inject himself into the mix. He knew it was silly, he knew that both Elyan and Bors cared for him greatly and didn’t mind his presence in their lives, but Bedivere couldn’t help but wonder how he fit in as he watched Elyan get distracted from chasing a butterfly by a cluster of blossoms and clover in the grass.

What was he to them? And what were they to him?

For over a decade, now, Bors had been his closest friend and greatest ally within the castle, though he remembered that when the crocodile was first knighted, the Impact Knight hadn’t lived up to his moniker when it came to him. Quiet, calculating Bedivere hadn’t appreciated Bors’ loud, obnoxious voice and fighting style, thinking that he was just another Lamorak, or Gawain, but the more he was partnered up with him for missions and quests, he started to notice Bors’ cleverness, his diligence, and his attention to detail. The behaviors he had found annoying, though still no less obnoxious, sounded more like a cry for help, for attention, for friendship from a man who wanted nothing more than to be liked.

Bedivere had relented, had offered forth his friendship, and in return Bors had calmed down a great deal. Now, so many years later, Bedivere was watching over Bors’ son, making sure he didn’t fly off or get hurt.

Perhaps he feared getting left behind if he didn’t make his own impact on Elyan. Perhaps he thought that father and son would enter a new chapter in their lives, while he stayed behind, on the outside looking in, as irrational as that was. He supposed that, at this point, it didn’t truly matter how he fit in, but he still found himself puzzling again and again over exactly what those two were to him.

There were others he called his friends. There were some that he considered family as well. But those two…  _ transcended _ those terms, somehow. They were that and more, and Bedivere had no words for it.

He heard the lumbering footsteps first, then felt them in the ground. He kept his eyes focused on Elyan, knowing that the young bee’s attention could flip like a switch at any moment, as the newcomer stopped by his spot in the grass, giving a loud yawn.

“Mornin’, Vere,” Bors grumbled, still shaking off his sleepiness. “Thanks for watching him.”

“Of course.”

“I brought you a snack from the dining hall. You skipped breakfast again, didn’t you?”

Bedivere didn’t answer. Bors was right as usual, but he chalked that one up to himself being predictable. Instead, he reached his arm out, splaying his fingers to receive the offering.

“...Um…”

It took Bedivere a second to realize what was wrong. He looked over and sure enough, he had held out his right arm. The arm that ended with a stump at the wrist. The one that had no fingers to splay.

_ Yet he still felt them, sometimes. _

Wordlessly, he stretched his other arm across his person, and Bors dropped an apple in his hand. The chameleon took a bite, unwilling to talk about what had just happened, eating hungrily as his eyes sought out Elyan once more, thankfully finding him not far from where he was before.

For a moment, all was silent between them, save for the sound of Bors tossing and catching a second apple he had brought along, presumably for his son.

“You know,” Bors finally said, “Smithy could make you a new hand, if you wanted.”

Bedivere swallowed his mouthful, the tart taste of the fruit souring with his mood. “I do not see the point. As talented as he is, he would not be able to recreate the full dexterity of a hand.”

“Perhaps he could if Merlina were to help him. Together, those two could engineer some grand things.”

“Then why waste the effort on me?” Bedivere asked, voice cold as he tossed the apple’s core aside. “Their creations could do so much for the castle and for the people. Me… losing my hand was  _ my _ mistake. It is my own fault, and this is my punishment.”

Bors sighed, sounding disappointed, but it didn’t matter. This was how every one of these conversations went. Sometimes Bors would follow it up with something along the lines of ‘do you truly believe that?’ and the answer was always ‘yes’.  It had been his own carelessness that had lost him his hand. His inability to react fast enough as he pushed Bors and Tristan away from the gaping jaws of the dragon. He had felt the boiling breath permeate his armor and hit his skin, had heard the snapping of the teeth coming together, and for a moment there was absolutely nothing before the flood of screams and pain and panic overloaded his mind and erased everything else of that moment from memory.

This was the consequence. It was as simple as that.

“...And what of your duty?”

Bedivere’s head whipped to the side. Bors was looking forward, keeping his eyes on Elyan. When Bedivere didn’t respond, he spoke some more.

“As knights, we are honor-bound to do our best to serve our king and our people. We must do everything in our power to ensure that we may fulfil the oath that we swore when we pledged our lives to King Arthur. You would do much better if you found a tool to help you fight at your full potential, don’t you think?”

Bedivere remained silent, choosing to look down at his wrists. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the truth behind Bors’ words… not just Bors, but Gaheris and Gawain and Guinevere as well. All of them urged him to find something to replace his missing hand, reminding him that he had options aside from living the way he was.

Bedivere knew he had options, but he never felt like he deserved them.

“Think about it some more,” Bors said as he started to shuffle forward to join up with Elyan. “But for what it’s worth, I think you have punished yourself enough as it is.”

With that, he left, racing out to chase Elyan in the field. Bedivere watched as Elyan led Bors around in circles, nimbly evading his grasp until the crocodile was bent over, heaving breaths. As Elyan flew forth to taunt him, Bors jumped forth, catching the bee in his arms, and they both fell to the ground, laughing until Bors sat his son on his lap, giving him the spare apple to eat.

They looked like the pinnacle of joy, and Bedivere felt a pang in his heart.

His gaze went back to his arms. He thought about everyone he swore to protect. He thought about the years he had spent as a knight, trying his hardest to make life the best it could be for everyone. He thought about how he had willingly thrown himself in front of a dragon for Bors and Tristan… would he do it again?

_ Yes, _ he realized silently as he looked back up at Bors and Elyan. Though he didn’t relish the thought, he knew he would give up his other hand for them. He would give up all his limbs, surviving only as a head if he had to, if it meant that their joy could continue. If it meant that Elyan would have a father, and Bors a son.

But how could he do that if he kept punishing himself?

Bedivere stood up, whispering a soft ‘thank you’ as he disappeared from sight. He wasn’t ready to accept a replacement hand, not yet, but he was less opposed to the idea than before.

He hoped with time he would overcome his misgivings and do what was right for him, and for the rest of the knights.

_ He knew he had to protect that joy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a family is a crocodile, his bee son, and a chameleon who doesn't know how he fits in the picture but he's just glad he does.


	8. Fated Love (Merlina & Vivien)

One very nice thing about magic was that there was always more to learn. Merlina pondered this as she made her way through the trees, away from Misty Lake. Her lesson with Nimue had gone well; the eternal lady had been very patient in her explanation of water magic, though she was hesitant to call it as such.

_ “There are a great many forms of water magic,” _ she had explained, linking her hands in front of her.  _ “The magic that commands the ocean’s waves, and the magic that summons the rain, and the magic that can lift a drink from its glass… all are water magic, and yet none are the same. I would say my magic would be more suited to be called lake magic.” _

Lake magic… another branch of magic to discover and attempt to master. There was always something new to find, and Merlina’s head swam with all that she knew and the dizzying plethora of knowledge she had yet to gain.

Merlina’s grandfather had been renowned for being one of the greatest wizards of all time, not due to how much power he held, but his mastery of very specific branches and his knowledge aiding him with the rest. His library had gone to her after his death, and even after so many years, Merlina was certain she was nowhere past halfway done reading all the books. Some merited a second read, though at this point, she was sure that all of them would offer some new nuggets of wisdom and clarity that she hadn’t managed to grasp on her first reading.

Her power levels exceeded her grandfather’s, but without a similar deep knowledge to the one he had gained over his years and years of study and training, she would never be as great as he, and so she studied and, whenever she had the opportunity, trained with a master. There were some things that couldn’t be taught through a book, after all.

Above her head, gliding from tree to tree, was a raven, following her as she moved. Merlina had long since become accustomed to the presence of such a bird, despite its reputation as an ill omen. Ravens had followed her since her birth, and more than once she had been guided by them. The ravens held immense foresight, and Merlina had long since decided to trust them.

So on that day, when the raven let out a shrill cry and darted to the left, Merlina decided to follow it.

Merlina could count on less than ten fingers the number of times she had been guided by her feathered familiars, yet every time she did, she would find something special. More often than not, the birds showed her the way to a rare ingredient for making potions or elixirs, and once or twice she had been led to a unique artifact that warranted further study.

Today, however, she was led through the trees and right into the path of a person.

The figure stumbled through the trees, breathing so loudly that the sound was the first thing Merlina picked up on, peering behind an oak to see a woman around her age make her way forward, dirty hands groping about until they rested on trunks as she passed, offering stability as she slowly put one foot in front of the other. Her tattered dress was gray and brown and red, yet small patches of white cloth and feathers suggested that it was stained from a long, rough journey, further evidenced as she stopped, coughing and wheezing, seemingly about to collapse.

Merlina started to step forward, then paused and glanced up to the branches above, where the ravens sat. When the birds made no effort to steer her away, she continued her path forward.

“Hello?” she ventured, keeping her voice soft and quiet, and the exhausted woman lifted her face to look at her.

Hair orange like an ember framed a face streaked with dirt and dried blood, and sky blue eyes locked on to hers, taking Merlina’s breath away. Though this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence 一 Merlina had always found herself nervous around pretty women 一 there was something different about this meeting. Something tugged at the back of Merlina’s mind, an understanding that brought itself forth like a prophecy.

This girl, whoever she was, was going to be _very_ important to her.

Merlina continued her approach as the girl lowered herself to her knees, sitting on her calves as she rested her back against the tree she was leaning on a moment prior, eyes glassy and unfocused. Her mouth parted, and she croaked out a broken little request. “Water… please…”

Merlina fumbled at her robes, searching through her possessions for her waterskin, then knelt down, lifting it to the other woman’s lips. The wanderer gulped down the water, spluttering and coughing when she took in too much, and Merlina drew away the skin to pat her on the back, helping dislodge the drops that had gone down the wrong way.

“You must drink slower,” she advised once the coughing had subsided. “Too much at once will do more harm than good.”

The girl nodded, and Merlina aided her in taking smaller sips until the skin was empty. Then, just in case, Merlina condensed some water from the air around them with her magic, adding it back into her waterskin. It was a technique she had learned from Nimue, one that the lady used to create the fog over her home, hiding it and her from view from anyone who wished to disturb her. Briefly, Merlina wondered if this, too, would be considered lake magic. It seemed more like sky magic, and a small smile played on her face as she considered the intersections between branches of magic once more.

By the time the skin had a good amount of water back in it, her companion’s breathing had eased, and Merlina handed her the skin again.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered, taking one more large sip before handing the skin back. “I fear I might have died had you not helped me.”

In her head, Merlina agreed; the woman had looked minutes away from death’s door. “Think nothing of it,” she replied, refastening her waterskin inside her robes and pulling down her hood. “I should like to think that most wouldn’t ignore a traveller in need.”

The other woman averted her eyes, frowning for a moment before her expression relaxed into something neutral, so quickly and seamlessly that it appeared as though it was a practiced endeavour. “I should hope so, too, but I… I have tried my best to avoid any others.”

Merlina quirked a brow. “Why is that?”

“Fear.” The woman’s voice remained calm as she responded, only serving to deepen Merlina’s confusion, but it was hard to determine just how much she was allowed to ask.

“Are you afraid of me?” she finally asked, and the other woman turned to look at her again.

“...No,” she answered, sounding faintly bemused behind her careful veil of neutrality. “And I cannot fathom why. Ever since I nearly poisoned myself drinking from a stream, I thought…” Her voice trailed off, and Merlina raised her eyebrows in shock.

“Have you not drank any water since then?”

The woman hesitated, but ultimately nodded her head.

“Not even from any inns?”

“I haven’t been to any inns. I don’t dare eat their food.”

“Why not?” Merlina pressed, causing the other girl to press her lips into a thin line before relaxing again in that eerily precise way.

“As you’ve… saved my life… and presumably the lives of many others in the process,” she replied, adding to Merlina’s confusion and curiosity, “I suppose I could tell you my story.” The girl pressed one hand against her ribs, a hand covered in infected cuts and grime. “I have… something sealed inside of me. Something terrible. Something powerful. The only way to release it… is through tears. Tears of any kind.” Her hand fell to her lap. “As one of the children who showed a higher level of emotional self-control, I was selected to be the new vessel for this…  _ thing. _ But it comes at a great cost.”

She stopped speaking, giving Merlina a moment to fit the pieces together. “So you aren’t permitted to cry?” she summarized. “And… that would mean that you would be protected from anything that could cause tears?”

The other woman nodded. “I was not permitted friends. Should one of them upset me, or leave one day and never return… was too big of a risk. My diet was controlled, nothing too hot or too cold, nothing with spice, nothing with sharp edges…”

“And so you refused to eat at any inns,” Merlina realized aloud.

“Exactly. Even though… Even though my home is…” Her mouth twitched, then her eyes closed, and the traveller took a moment to breathe deeply before returning to her decidedly neutral self. “Although my home is where I am best looked after, it’s for the best that I do not return for a while. The risk of upset is too high.”

“Where is your home?”

“The kingdom of Soleanna,” the woman replied, and Merlina gaped.

“Where the attack happened?” she asked, and her companion nodded.

“I feared that, looking upon such ruin would wear down on me, and so to protect them all, I left.”

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“When did you leave?”

“The day of the attack.”

Merlina gaped. “That was over two months ago!”

Her companion raised her eyebrows, blinking once before relaxing again. The habit was so practiced that it made Merlina uneasy. “So it’s been that long…”

“You’ve been on foot,” Merlina repeated, struggling to wrap her mind around everything, “for two months, barely eating or drinking, not stopping for help, not even for your wounds, and you haven’t shed a single tear?”

“That…” The woman’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Yes, I suppose so.”

_ How are you alive? _ Merlina wondered in amazement.

Out loud, she had a very different reaction. “Then come with me. I shall bring you to Camelot and see that you are properly fed and your wounds treated.”

“Camelot?” the woman echoed. “So I’ve made it as far as Avalon?” She mulled this over for a moment before shaking her head. “I couldn’t impose,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap.

“...Are you still afraid?” Merlina guessed, and the other woman’s face remained blank, her body unmoving, yet her silence spoke volumes. “You do not need to be. We have a very competent crew at the castle, and… I might be of assistance to you as well. I have a handle on many types of magic, you see.”

The woman’s mask broke, just a smidge. “I saw… with the waterskin.”

“So, perhaps, I could help make sure that nothing happens to make you cry?”

For a long while, both were silent as the girl thought it over. Finally, she spoke. “I do not want to put any more people in danger,” she said. “Do you think… do you think you will truly be able to help suppress what I hold within me?”

Merlina got to her feet, holding forth one hand to her companion. “Perhaps,” she replied, “but I trust myself a great deal more than leaving you alone to face the world.”

The woman opened her mouth, then closed it. Merlina knew that her logic made sense, but she also knew all too well what it was like to have fear command oneself. A hand slipped into hers, and she pulled the other to her feet.

“My name is Merlina the Wizard,” she offered.

“I am Vivien… the Vessel.”

Together, they started the journey home, their hands remaining clasped together as Vivien’s weakened legs struggled to keep her upright, and Merlina looked up to the trees, silently thanking the ravens for their guidance. She had already been blessed with various forms of foresight, from divinations to her reflecting pool, and something inside her could sense something connecting her to the woman beside her, as though they were joined together by a thread or a chain that neither could see, but both could feel as their hands subconsciously squeezed each other. Merlina didn’t know exactly what the future held for her and Vivien, but she was rather excited to find out.

The two made their way to Castle Camelot, unaware that not all the dark shapes that watched them from above were birds.

_ And so the raven met the swan... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I offer you a crackship in these trying times?
> 
> Lore dump time: The opening cutscene to SatBK shows a raven flying off and shedding a single feather before the focus switches to Merlina running. Ravens signify ill omens, but also prophecy and insight, which fits Merlina exceptionally.
> 
> In Sonic 06, Elise has a similar image of a white feather floating down from above; swans symbolise a great many things, but among those are grace, love, peace, protection, calmness, transformation, and eternal life. Some of these fit Elise as a character, and others fit her Arthurian counterpart.
> 
> So who is Vivien? It's actually (potentially) another name for Nimue! In some legends, Merlin was both Vivien's mentor and lover, though not always in a good way (Vivien feared his advances in some/all legends, according to my research). But I'm pretty sure you all know how I roll by now; I've turned Vivien's fear into something quite different here.
> 
> Final fun bit of information: I've heard some people say that, the second that they met they met the person who would be their future spouse, they just knew it from the get-go. I feel that Merlina, with her affinity for seeing/sensing the future, would be one of those people.


	9. Love for the Departed (Galahad & Elaine & Lancelot)

As they started up the hill, Galahad felt his hand become enclosed in his father’s. The boy fought the urge to wriggle his hand free; this wasn’t a typical instance where Lancelot would take his hand, guiding him along as though he was afraid Galahad would get lost or left behind without his help. Galahad knew that his father was searching for comfort, both to give and to receive.  As they made their way to the hill’s summit, where a large tree grew 一 an old birch, Galahad determined 一 their footfalls lulled, their movements halted, and for one moment, Lancelot glanced back, and Galahad followed his gaze.

Corbenic stretched out behind them, peaceful as the afternoon turned into evening, and Galahad couldn’t help but wonder what a childhood there might have been like.

In the dying light, Galahad could see the stone lying at the base of the tree, with a name and a couple of dates poorly etched into the flattest surface. Galahad’s hand finally slipped out of his father’s as he approached, and he knelt onto the grass in the shade of the tree.

“...Hello, Mother.”

The words sounded strange coming from his mouth, words he had never had the chance to utter, and here he was, speaking to a rock, sitting on a patch of grass that looked like any other patch of grass, though he knew that, several years ago, it had been a mound of loose soil. Galahad frowned, thinking of what he could say to this stone, this representation of someone who was not there.

“It’s me. Galahad. Your son. I… I suppose you won’t remember me as your son, but I… I am your son.”

He didn’t know why it felt as though his words were being heard. Perhaps it was the proximity to the closest thing to his mother he had, but there was something comforting about being able to talk and feeling heard.

“I’m a knight now, just like Father. I’m a young one, too! They say I’m the youngest ever to receive such an honor, and I don’t take it lightly at all!” Galahad brightened up as the sun continued to go down, bathing the world in shadow. “I’m very happy with myself. I’ve gone on a great deal of adventures and quests, and I help many people with my powers.” He took a small breath in. “Right… I don’t suppose you know about my powers. I can move objects with my mind! And I can float, too! Grandmother calls it psychokinesis… Did you ever meet Grandmother?”

The stone gave no answer, but Galahad barrelled onward.

“Grandmother is very kind. She loves me and Father a great deal, and I enjoy visiting her. She fusses over me, but she doesn’t get many visitors, so I do not mind. She is very powerful too! She can do magic, and she doesn’t grow old. King Arthur comes to her for guidance, and he always asks me and Father to come with him. I think it’s because he knows she would be happy to see us, and because we’re fast enough to keep pace with him.” Galahad pondered for a moment. “Percival is very fast as well, I’m sure she could join if she wanted.” Then, as an explanation, “Percival is my best friend. I love her very much.”

Then, softer as the light continued to fade, “...I’ve been told that you would have loved me very much.”

The rock remained impassive, and the faded scrawl spelling  **_Elaine_ ** disappeared as the sun set.

“I’ve been told… that you are a very kind person, like Grandmother. That you were fun, like King Arthur. Smart, like Percival. Strong and tough, like Father. I’ve been told that I knew you, once, when I was too young to speak, or walk on my own. I’ve been told… that you held me, once. That you spoke to me. That you looked after me, and… and I wish I could remember you.”

Galahad heard a pained intake of breath behind him, yet his eyes remained focused on the dark form of the stone before him.

“I wish I could have met you, Mother. I’m sure… I’m sure I would have loved you very much as well.”

Galahad reached one hand forward until it rested on the grave marker, his fingers blindly tracing the letters of his mother’s name, and that’s when it struck him.

_This_ was where his mother was buried. _This_ was as close to her as he would ever get again. His mother, _his mother!_ She was underneath the ground. She was there, unable to see him or talk to him or hold him, and if he dug his fingers through the earth, as deep as he could go, whatever remained down there would not be his mother as she had been described to him.

This was as close as he would ever get, and it was so terribly far away.

A sob raised into his throat, and his eyes flooded with sudden tears. Galahad’s shoulders shook as his hands dropped to the ground, lying flat on the grave that was so overgrown that it no longer looked like a grave, reaching forth with his energy as though trying to find even a fraction of his mother’s essence, but finding nothing.

The overwhelming sensation of loss slammed down on him, more painful than any weapon he ever had to deflect, and his mind kept screaming  _ She was taken from you. She was taken away. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair... _

Arms surrounded him, lifting him from the ground and pressing him into a familiar and comforting chest, which was also heaving with emotion. Galahad clung to his father, weeping without a second thought, and Lancelot cried with him. They were knights, strong and brave and unbreakable, but that didn’t matter right then. Galahad didn’t want to be strong at that moment.

He was sad, he was upset, he was beside himself with grief for a woman he would never be able to remember, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, while being held by his father, whom he loved so much that it helped him begin to fathom how close he might have been with his mother. He wanted to cry, and he wanted Lancelot to cry, and he wanted so many things that he would not be able to have, but at the very least, he could have this.

So he cried.


	10. Young Love (Percival & Galahad)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some Gala-glad to counterbalance the Gala-sad.

“Come on! It’s this way!”

Percival travelled along on quick feet as Galahad pulled her forward, traversing the grassy fields right outside of the castle’s outer wall. Galahad, in his excitement, would occasionally levitate in an attempt to go faster. Sometimes his powers would affect her as well, travelling from person to person through their joined hands, but the instant he noticed they were both floating, he would set them both back down, apologizing. 

Percival was fine with it. She trusted Galahad’s three-centimeters-above-ground levitations far more than her brother’s complete disregard for gravity, but it was nice to see that he cared enough to think of her fears.

Dead autumn leaves rolled across the grass as they travelled to their destination, one which Galahad wouldn’t disclose, saying he had a surprise for her. Hardly surprising, Percival supposed, given that it was her birthday.

_Fourteen years old…_ That was how old Lamorak was when he became a knight. Percival mused it over; she was already considered a prodigy, she held a sacred sword, and she was well on her way to becoming an incredibly accomplished knight. But what was next? What else could she learn, outside from facing and overcoming her fears with her brother’s aid? As much as she respected him and loved him, Percival did not want to end up like Lamorak, powerful enough to bring anyone to their knees if he wanted to, and yet choosing to remain a braggart instead of applying himself to learning new things. Percival had so much life ahead of her, and she wanted to make sure she stayed on the best track. To be the greatest she could be.

Galahad stopped suddenly, and with her thoughts still swirling in her head, Percival bumped into him from behind. Percival apologized, but Galahad hardly seemed to mind or notice as he trembled with eagerness and nervousness. His hand squeezed hers before he let go, motioning towards three overgrown patches of flowers.

Percival regarded them with gentle wonder. “You’ve grown yourself a garden?” she asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the flowers. The effects of autumn were beginning to show in the form of some withering stems and browning leaves, but the blooms were still bright and proud, a testament to the incredible love and care that had gone in to growing them. A love and care that could often only be attributed to Galahad.

Yet her friend shook his head. “No, not quite,” he replied, prompting her to look back to him. Scratching his head, grinning sheepishly, he proclaimed, “I’ve grown  _ you _ a garden, Percival. Those flowers are my gift to you. Happy birthday!”

Percival stood there, stunned, looking from Galahad to the flowers and back again, following him with her eyes as he made his way over to the blooms. “I wanted to grow these and pick them for you,” he explained, as Percival felt her face burn and her heart speed up, “but when I saw how well they were growing… I just couldn’t do it! They looked so happy, and I thought that you would understand, and that you would be happy to see them alive even more than holding them in your hands.” He stopped by the first patch, grinning from ear to ear as he continued his explanation. “I went to the flower shop a while ago with Father, and there were so many beautiful flowers… but these ones reminded me of you.” He knelt down, delicately touching the tall stalks clustered with small gray-purple blooms. “This is lavender. They’re tall like you, and they’re purple like you, and the shape reminds me of your hair. They smell nice, too, and I know how much you enjoy nice-smelling things.” He chattered on, blissfully unaware of how flustered he was making his friend as he went into the finer details of his gift. “Lavender is supposed to mean grace and calmness, so even in flower language it reminds me of you!”

Another flush of heat made its way to Percival’s face, and she feared she would set his flowers aflame if she didn’t get a hold of her emotions soon. She felt about as far away from ‘grace’ and ‘calmness’ as she could be!

“This is the purple freesia,” he continued, making his way to the next patch of flowers. “It’s purple again, but the middles are yellow, like your eyes.” He paused, glancing at her before turning back to the flowers. “Well… I suppose your eyes are more amber than yellow, but it still reminded me of you.” One hand reached out, delicately touching the pale purple petals. “This flower represents friendship, which is perfect, because you are my best friend in the world.”

Next to her foot, a dry leaf spontaneously caught on fire, and Percival quickly stamped it out before Galahad could notice. The hedgehog didn’t seem to realize the effect his present was having on his friend as he stopped by the final cluster of flowers, a stunning red-orange this time instead of purple.

“These are amaryllis,” he said, smiling softly. “At first, they reminded me of your flames, but they also reminded me of your strength and your determination. I know that you’ll be the greatest knight of all, Percival, and…” He laughed nervously, locking his fingers together. “I suppose it sounds silly, now that I say it aloud, but I was hoping that I could show you that I believe in you with these flowers. You’re supposed to give them to someone after a hard-earned success… or at least, that’s what the flower shop attendant told me.”

Percival had to take a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Galahad believed in her. Galahad believed in her so strongly and so resolutely that he had gotten her a celebratory gift before she had even done anything worth celebrating.

_ This boy… This boy deserved everything good in the world. _

“And they don’t only mean strength and achievement. They also mean beauty and love, and I thought that was perfect, because you’re beautiful and you’re one of the people I love the most in the world.”

_ Sweet Chaos, he was going to be the death of her. _

“And you’re my best friend and I feel so lucky to have you around, and you’re really so amazing and accomplished, but I don’t always know how to tell you that, so when I saw these flowers I--”

He was cut off as Percival knelt beside him and drew him into her arms, resting her chin on his shoulder. Galahad sat there stunned for a moment before relaxing and hugging her back. Though Percival couldn’t see it, she could so easily imagine his bright smile illuminating the cold day around them. She could feel his heart where their chests pressed together, thundering in time with hers, and she closed her eyes tight, forcing herself to calm down before she got any more overwhelmed at the fact that this wonderful, precious boy, who could slay a dragon and defeat an army, hadn’t had the heart to pick an assortment of flowers that he had grown with her in mind.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

The arms around her middle tightened. “I’m so glad.”

For a while they held each other, both basking in the warmth of the other’s company, until their hearts calmed down and they were able to break apart, eyes meeting for a moment before shyly sliding to the side. A flash of yellow caught Percival’s eye 一 another patch of flowers, spaced well away from her garden 一 and she cleared her throat, trying to regain her dignified disposition. “Is that one of yours as well?” she asked, hating how her voice cracked in the middle of her question.

“Oh!” Galahad brightened up even more, somehow. “Yes! Those are daffodils, Father’s favorite. When he told me that he liked them the most I couldn’t resist. I have been thinking about getting more flowers, for all of the knights, and the blacksmiths, too, but I wished to grow yours and Father’s first.”

“Like a Knight Garden?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

And Galahad looked so joyful at the prospect of planting more flowers, even though winter was fast approaching and the coming cold and snow would wither the blooms to nothing, that Percival couldn’t stop herself.

“May I assist you?”

Golden eyes widened and then crinkled in glee. “Of course! I would love to teach you how to garden! Oh! Unless you already know how, in which case, I would greatly appreciate your help!”

Percival closed her eyes, smiling softly. “You would be teaching me. I feel as though I could learn a lot from you.”

She held back a laugh as Galahad flustered, and perhaps gardening wasn’t what she had in mind when she was thinking about new things she could learn to move forward, but she decided she didn’t mind. To grow something with Galahad, to nurture it together, to create something born of love and care instead of fire and fight, sounded wonderful in its own way.

As Galahad launched into an explanation of how to care for different kinds of flowers, Percival found herself wondering what kind of flower Galahad would be. With his own birthday fast approaching, Percival figured she could surprise him with some meaningful flora of her own, albeit in seed form.

_ Perhaps… a sunflower? Something to match his cheerful disposition and his bright smile? _

Their hands found each other again as they headed back to the castle as night began to fall, Percival in the lead with her better eyesight. Though they had to leave her present behind, the memory of the lovely flowers were still fresh in her mind’s eye, and their meanings echoed in her ears as she heard Galahad stumble along as the world around them grew darker and her birthday drew to a close.

_ Thank you, Galahad. From the bottom of my heart. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galahad has planted a small garden in your honor! Do you:  
> a) love him forever  
> b) love him forever  
> c) love him forever, or  
> d) all of the above
> 
> And then Lamorak saw them holding hands and never let Percival live it down, like the good big brother he is.
> 
> My mind has been off and on all day, so maybe not the best I've done, but I still like it. I still love these kids.
> 
> And I headcanon Percival's birthday to be in autumn, around mid-to-late October. Maybe even early November. Haven't quite decided.


	11. Lasting Love (Uther & Igraine)

Uther Pendragon had always considered himself a lucky man.

He grew up in one of the smaller Avalonian towns, where everyone knew everybody else. Though no life is truly devoid of hardship, he could not claim to have been an unhappy child. He had been healthy and bright-eyed, eager to learn and happy to help. His town, tucked away in the green hills of the kingdom, held a variety of tradesmen, many of whom were willing to pass on their knowledge to the curious young boy who, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, would answer with the same five words every time.

_ “I want to be everything!” _

His child self would consider himself lucky, for when he grew older, that was exactly what he became. Uther found himself taking small jobs all around his town, and later on, in larger towns when he tried to see what existed beyond his childhood home. His work, though far from professional quality, was good, and Uther himself was a strong, dependable, likeable fellow whom people were happy to hire for basic roof repair, or farm help, or stocking goods in the marketplace. These odd jobs never paid much, but there were many and they kept Uther busy and happy.

He was still a young man when he met Igraine, a woman whose great ambition sparkled in her eyes and whose quick wit and good humor mixed beautifully with his own. When he finally managed to make her laugh so hard she squeaked with one of his bad puns, he knew he had found the one for him.

He doubled his efforts to work and learn as Igraine continued her medical training, determined to support the both of them, even if he worked his hands to the bone. He would have, too, had Igraine not stepped in, reminding him to take days off and assuring him that they did not need to eat large meals to survive. When Uther’s health had taken a turn for the worse one day, she had put her training on hold so she could look after him until he recovered.

_ “At least with me around, you won’t need to pay for a doctor.” _

At that, Uther had laughed so hard he wheezed, and once he had made a recovery and Igraine had resumed her studies and work, he started setting aside a new crop of funds for a ring. He held off on the proposal until she had completed her training, not wanting to distract her, and the day she had gotten her recognition as a medical expert, he celebrated with her, determined not to detract from Igraine’s own joy at her achievement.

He managed to wait two days until he couldn’t bear it any longer, and the ‘yes’ he got in response was all he truly wanted for a long, long time.

The years went by in a blur; Uther kept up his odd jobs, but with Igraine’s income added to the mix, he no longer had to work quite so hard. They spent a lot of time together, finding joy in cooking, housework, and reading in tandem. Being with one another was comfortable and fulfilling, and Uther considered himself the luckiest man in the land.

Children had come up in conversation, and that was one of the areas in which the couple faced the most dissonance. When Uther felt as though he was prepared for one, Igraine was uncertain, and when Igraine was ready, Uther had his doubts. Their timing never seemed to coincide, until the decision was made for them in a bundle of blue left in the woods near their home.

Arthur was a welcome addition, after the initial uncertainty and panic had vanished, and as he grew up, admiring his parents with all his heart and running across the lands with all his might, Uther and Igraine had no regrets. Not even when Arthur had brought a bundle of his own back into the shelter of their home several years later.

_ “No more after this one,” _ Igraine had said after Smithy’s adoption was finalized, and Uther had to agree. Two sons was plenty, especially when one ran faster than the winds, and the other was a tradesman with skill beyond Uther’s understanding at the tender age of five.  They only grew to become more and more incredible as the years passed, and when Arthur was crowned king at age fifteen, neither parent could keep themselves from shedding tears of pride and joy.

Uther bragged about his brilliant wife and incredible sons every chance he could. How could he possibly resist? Some days, when he lied down in bed beside Igraine, a hand would reach out to caress her hair and he would wonder in a whisper how he was blessed with so much good fortune.

Even through strife, their family remained strong. When Arthur, the king himself, came to him for advice when he was lost, Uther never hesitated to give it. When Smithy came home for a visit, exhausted after working himself to near-collapse, Igraine would look him over, scolding him lightly for putting work above his health, though she knew that there wasn’t much of a choice.

When Arthur got married, Uther celebrated with his sons as much as he was able, accepted Guinevere’s request for a dance and got absolutely shown up by her skills, and slow danced with his wife, admiring how gracefully she had aged, compared to himself, who was sporting so many grays and wrinkles that he grimaced whenever he peered into a looking glass. And then Igraine, beautiful, smart, wonderful Igraine, had cupped his face and called him the handsomest man in the land.

Several months later, when they learned of Arthur’s love for his longtime friend Lancelot, Igraine had clapped her hands together with a giant smile, proclaiming that she had known it all along, and Uther decided not to bring up how she had claimed that she could tell that Guinevere was ‘the one’ on the night of Arthur’s wedding. He had long since learned and accepted that, for the most part, Igraine was always right, even when she wasn’t. He didn’t mind at all.

Igraine was happy.

His sons were happy.

He was happy.

Uther Pendragon was the luckiest man alive, and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at a Tom/Maddie and you know what?
> 
> I like them a lot.


	12. Protective Love (Caliburn & Arthur)

“Keep your guard up.”

Caliburn heard the annoyed exhale and the sharp “I know!” that were as good as reflexes, but the sword also sensed the king’s alertness perk back up after a falling to the wayside. Arthur dodged one oncoming blow, blocking a second one to his left, and after a second of consideration, leapt into the air, causing his opponents to run into each other and fall into a heap before disappearing.  To their side, focusing on her own task, was Merlina, who murmured words as her staff tapped against the ground, making small waves of ultimately harmless opponents for Arthur to fight against.

A staple piece of training for some, the opportunity to take on multiple foes without any hesitation was considered essential as of late, with the Saxon attacks on the kingdom of Soleanna, and the more recent waves of soldiers heading toward Spiral Kingdom. G.U.N. had been sending out reinforcements, and given their alliance via Queen Guinevere, Avalon was expected to do the same.

Still, they weren’t fools. They knew better than to leave their kingdom unguarded, and that the next wave of battle-thirsty soldiers could end up on their doorstep at any moment. To be prepared was crucial. To be anything less than entirely focused on the battle before them simply wouldn’t do.

Caliburn was glad to sense that King Arthur was taking this practice match seriously.

As the king twisted and turned, struck and parried, Caliburn was reminded of all the years he had spent training him from a knave to a knight, from a lad to a king. He remembered teaching him the value of dodging and of blocking, of timing attacks just right to get the most out of every swing. At this point, Caliburn was as good as another part of Arthur’s arm, fitting together as naturally as could be, despite their clashes.

Caliburn could sense it, since the very beginning. From that first uncertain tug upwards, he had known that this was to be his wielder. He had felt Arthur’s heart, strong and kind and determined, filled with a protective love for those he held dear, and the capacity to extend that love to a kingdom and beyond. Caliburn had felt his potential, and yielded from his stone, bound to a boy with wide eyes and a sharp tongue that Caliburn had threatened to cut out once or twice.

Caliburn had felt Arthur’s strength grow with time, his skills sharpening like a well-honed blade, and his claim to the throne only grew more and more certain. No matter the anxieties the king held within his heart, no matter the mistakes he made, he stood by his kingdom, as Caliburn knew he would.

When Caliburn had been shattered, he had heard the king’s voice cry out in horror and rage. In the dizzy depths of shock, Arthur had gathered him up again by the hilt, and Caliburn felt that fierce protective care burning within him. It was odd; Caliburn had never really considered himself to be a major player in the grand scheme of things, never something that fell under the jurisdiction of Arthur’s true care, and yet when he was retrieved from the corner that he skidded into, he felt a fool for thinking otherwise. As Lancelot dispatched the foes in that room, unhinged and merciless, he felt Arthur grasp him tight, a flurry of emotions welling up, like fear, and unease, and concern, and relief, and that one particular feeling that always welled up whenever Lancelot was near. Arthur had set Caliburn down, gently, before kneeling before his knight, and even though his grip was gone, the sword could still sense that great protective love that Arthur carried within him.

He had felt it secondhand through many battles, through many arguments, time after time he felt it grow and expand and cover more ground. Then, Caliburn noticed that he still felt it, even when he was not clasped within Arthur’s hand.

An inspirational king, to be sure, to fill Caliburn with that same burning desire to protect.

And as Arthur kept up his training, Caliburn felt their protectiveness, their determination, their care and their love for their kingdom and its people feed off of each other’s and grow, and when Arthur slashed through the final opponent, neither king nor sword had any quips to offer.

They understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excalibur Sonic got announced for Speed Battle so I had to make a quick little chapter featuring everyone's favorite sword. I hope so much that we get the other knights next.


	13. Whirlwind Romance (Tristan & Yseult)

Tristan didn’t think much of her assignment at first; it was a simple task to help escort Princess Yseult from her hometown to her new residence at Acorn Kingdom’s palace. Given Avalon’s recent victory of sorts, it stood to reason that some Saxon troops would still be encroaching on Acorn’s borders to the south, especially after King Arthur’s blunder and King Ælle’s subsequent escape. Tristan’s summoning by her uncle, King Mark, wasn’t unexpected, nor was King Arthur’s command for her to go. The poor man was spread thin, grappling for every little piece of favor he could regain, working day and night to make sure Avalon was restored and that the fragile alliances between the kingdoms were maintained. Tristan, as disappointed as she was with his failure on the battlefield, sympathized with Arthur and was happy to do her part to put him back on the right track. Everyone made mistakes, after all.

The town of Holo was a bright one, with large glistening rocks that caught the sun’s light and fountains all around that reflected the bright rays, bathing everything in a holy glow. Golden ornaments gleamed, magical fixtures sparkled, it was dazzling… at first, anyhow. After a few minutes, Tristan started to find the whole setup rather garish, but she was not there to judge.

She knelt down and bowed her head alongside the other knights and soldiers from Acorn as Princess Yseult joined their ranks. She heard the footsteps shuffle past them, towards the carriages, but they paused in front of her. Tristan dutifully kept her head down until a soft, monotonous voice spoke. “You have different armor from the rest. Are you supposed to be here?”

Tristan frowned, biting back a surge of indignation; the question hadn’t been malicious, simply ignorant, but all the same, she was a Knight of the Round Table, and she was not about to have her place questioned. Not by a fellow royal, nor by the woman who would soon be her aunt.

Her head raised, taking the question as an address, and met the curious green gaze of Princess Yseult. All at once, Tristan felt an odd pull forward, almost causing her to lose her balance, and her mouth ran drier than she cared to admit. Yseult wasn’t what Tristan had been expecting; she knew matters with heirs were often complicated, and that arranged marriages could pass from one sibling to the next, but she had still anticipated someone older, perhaps a woman in her fifties, similar to her uncle. Yseult looked as though she was barely pushing thirty years old, maybe only a handful of years older or younger than Tristan. It was hard to tell exactly where in life the princess was, and an odd pit formed in the knight’s gut at the sight of such a lovely woman in her prime, whose bright eyes were looking down at her with mirrored surprise and intrigue.

It was just another pretty face. Tristan had seen plenty of those. She cleared her mind and spoke.

“I am Sir Tristan of Acorn, and the Knight of the Spirit from the Round Table of Avalon. I am here upon request from my uncle and your betrothed, King Mark.”

A fraction of light in those green eyes died, and the pit in Tristan’s stomach mourned its loss.

“I see. I apologize for any offense I might have caused.”

Her words were so flat and rehearsed that she didn’t sound like a true living being, and as she passed Tristan by, the chipmunk felt her head spin with unfortunate realizations and odd sentiments.

* * *

They ended up riding in the same carriage along with two soldiers, sitting face to face as they rode along in silence. Yseult sat up straight, her hands folded primly in her lap, and she kept her gaze forward, unmoving. She didn’t speak a word, and Tristan couldn’t help but think once more of something not quite alive, like a breathing statue or a shell, and she did her best not to appear uncomfortable under the princess’ endless stare that went beyond Tristan’s eyes, beyond the back of the carriage, and perhaps even beyond the town of Holo that they left behind. Yet every once in a while, Tristan would see the princess’ eyes flicker to the side, out the window, taking a small glance at the world passing them by before going back to their original focus.

As night fell, these moments became more and more frequent until Yseult shifted in her seat, minutely readjusting herself so that she faced the window just a little more.

“You do not need to be alarmed,” Tristan remarked, and the lynx’s eyes snapped right back to her. “We are well trained, and not even the dark of night will hinder our efforts to ensure your safety.”

“Oh… No. You’re entirely wrong.”

Tristan was struck by the princess’ way of speaking; for the second time now, she had said something not exactly rude, but rather blunt and bereft of the common politeness she was accustomed to hearing from people of Yseult’s status. Though not very becoming, Tristan couldn’t bring herself to mind it all that much; it reminded her of Gareth when she had first come to Camelot.

Yseult glanced back at the window, one of her ears flicking in what appeared to be embarrassment. “It’s… darker than what I’m used to.”

Tristan thought back to the overdone light displays of Holo. “I suppose you’ve always been surrounded by light?”

“Yes, at all hours of the day. Though I’ve always heard of stars… I wonder if I could…”

Yseult glanced back at the window, and Tristan started to put a few pieces together.

“Go ahead. You need no permission to look.”

Yseult’s ear flicked again, but she leaned forward, tilting her head to look above, and Tristan saw her jaw drop in absolute awe at the sight of the heavens above her. The knight peered out as well, and smiled. It was a beautiful, clear night, and the stars shone above them, gorgeous clusters of gentle light that made the cosmos beyond their sky seem infinite. Tristan found herself caught up in the display, a sight she did not always get to enjoy with her busy work, but when she took another look at the princess across from her, she was similarly struck by the euphoric wonder lighting up Yseult’s features.

Tristan felt an odd flare of warmth that almost obfuscated the pit in her stomach and her growing sensation of dread.

* * *

Tristan was the one to escort Yseult to meet with her uncle. She watched the princess’ lukewarm responses to King Mark’s compliments and his attempts to charm her. Yseult was the picture of neutrality, from her stance to her voice, and yet Tristan could see her ear flicking every once in a while. The lynx was uncomfortable, of that she was certain.

As Tristan walked with her to what would be the princess' room for the next week, up until the wedding, Yseult kept her eyes firmly forward, but she walked close enough to Tristan for their arms to occasionally brush against each other, and Tristan tried her hardest to quell the heart-pounding thrill that went through her whenever it happened.

“You seem troubled,” she finally said, and a flick of the ear confirmed her suspicions before Yseult’s words did.

“Yes I… I know I must marry him. It’s been arranged since I was born. However, I cannot say that he is someone I would have chosen for myself at all.”

“A younger man, I presume?”

“No. I’ve never wanted the touch of a man.”

Tristan’s heart leapt into her throat. “And what of a woman?” she asked on impulse, and the way Yseult’s eyes glanced down at the floor and the way her ear flicked in nervousness was all the answer Tristan needed.

The pit grew bigger.

* * *

Tristan rarely saw Yseult in the week that followed, but she thought about her every day. She thought about the emptiness she saw in her, the sense that something was missing, from her calculated forward stares to her monotonous way of speaking, and how there was something about Yseult that just seemed too sad for words to describe. She thought about her telltale ear twitch, and how she had come alive at the sight of the stars, about her softness and her melancholy and her dutiful march to the altar where she would find a future she never wanted.

It didn’t sit well with Tristan at all, and she felt herself torn as she considered the options her brain threw at her. To go against her uncle and her home, her kingdom as a whole, was impossible. By all means, Yseult’s happiness was not something Tristan could fight for on her own, not when everything was in place and she had no right to stir the pot when she was but a bystander to this union between her kin and the unhappy princess. 

She would remember the electrifying feeling that passed between them whenever their arms brushed against each other’s, the enticing softness of the princess’ eyes whenever they came alight, even just a little, and tried her hardest not to think of what it would be like to hold her, to brush her hair away from her face, to make her smile…

Tristan couldn’t afford to dwell on these feelings. Overpowering as they were, she hardly knew Yseult, and it wasn’t appropriate to think in such a way about her uncle and king’s fiancée. It was downright disgraceful, in fact, and Tristan knew that the right thing to do was let Yseult handle her own destiny.

But then she saw the princess stand at the altar, undergoing the marriage ceremony without even the smallest sign of emotion, not until King Mark leaned forward for his kiss and for just a second, Yseult’s face broke into a look of pure, abject  **_misery._ **

Tristan knew she couldn’t do nothing anymore.

* * *

Tristan threw open the door to Yseult’s room, and the occupant’s head snapped up in surprise. Gone was the wedding dress, replaced with a soft lilac nightdress, but Tristan had no time to think about how much better it suited her.

“Grab what you can. I’m taking you away from here.”

Yseult’s eyes widened and met her own, and the look they shared ignited an understanding between them that made Tristan’s head spin with giddiness and nervousness and dread. Yseult packed up her things in a flash, rolling them in a blanket that she heaved over her shoulder.

They both knew there was no turning back.

* * *

Tristan stumbled, feet dragging and catching onto roots as Yseult’s deceptively small frame held her up. To be almost immediately caught by King Mark’s night patrol and to lose everything they had brought along was not what either of them were prepared for, and though Tristan fought their pursuers off admirably, she was in no state to travel.

It truly hit her then, what she had done. She had betrayed her home, her family, her honor, all because she had seen a woman so unhappy she could barely stand it, and now there was nothing left she could do. Her head dropped forward, auburn hair falling into the wound that stretched across the bridge of her nose, and the sting of sweat mixing with the cut kept her grounded in reality.

_ Painful, terrible reality. _

“Leave me here.”

Yseult stopped in her tracks. “I’m sorry?”

“Leave me here. I’ll only slow you down, and there’s no point in both of us being taken back.”

Yseult’s arms loosened, and Tristan prepared herself to fall to the ground, but the grip around her tightened and Yseult practically dragged her across the forest floor.

“Do not be ridiculous. We started this together, and we’ll end it together as well.”

Tristan opened her mouth, ready to argue, but her foot hit against a stone and the wave of pain that thrashed up her leg to her knee was too much to handle and only a strangled cry left her lips. Yseult’s grip tightened even more.

“I have nothing left but you now.”

Tristan couldn’t reply even if she wanted to.

* * *

“Hold still.”

In the darkness that surrounded them, Yseult knelt down to remove Tristan’s armor. They had found shelter in a large, gnarled tree, a burnt redwood, a shell of its former majesty. Experience taught Tristan to not look directly at her own wounds, and the sharp intake of breath from Yseult told her it was a good idea she didn’t look down.

“I won’t be of much use like this,” she said again, but Yseult ignored her. “It will take a long time to heal--”

“Then we will wait for you to heal for as long as we must,” Yseult said, briefly breaking out of her usual monotone. “I… I cannot go back, and I cannot be alone.”

Tristan sighed, head knocking back against the tree. Logic said that it was best if she was left behind, but she couldn’t deny that she was glad that Yseult was refusing to listen to reason.

“Hold still. I’m not very practiced at this.”

Tristan’s gaze lifted, eyes widening as she caught sight of Yseult’s hands, ringed in a faint violet glow. The lynx frowned in concentration, lowering her hands to Tristan’s wounded leg, and a tingling sensation flared under the newest wave of pain that coursed through the knight’s body. She grit her teeth, inhaling sharply, her fingers digging into the shallow bed of dirt that had blown into the tree’s husk over the years. Yseult drew her hands away for a moment, and in the window of relief, Tristan spoke up.

“You can do magic?”

“Not much,” Yseult admitted, lifting her bloodstained hands and refocusing her energies. “It was not something I was encouraged to learn. There is no room for magic in governance.”

“That sounds… ignorant.”

“I agree. I’ve found many of my restrictions to be stupid and regressive, but… that wasn’t my choice to make.” Her ear flicked again, an unspoken message of bitterness, and the power around her hands dimmed before brightening again. “Please, let me concentrate. If I do not do this correctly, I’ll make your wounds worse and you will die.” At Tristan’s bemused stare, Yseult’s eyes dropped and yet another embarrassed flick made itself known. “Was… that perhaps too blunt? I’ve been told by several people at Acorn that I am too straightforward.”

“More than I expected,” Tristan said, “but I find it to be one of your charms.”

Yseult’s mouth twitched, and she looked the most flustered that Tristan had ever seen her. The knight rested her head back and closed her eyes, noting that this was a good place to shut up.

The princess eventually recovered, returning to her amateur healing process, from Tristan’s leg, to the smaller wounds on her arms and hips, and then finally the thin slice across the bridge of her nose. When the sensations finally ceased, Tristan opened her eyes, staring at the shadowy figure of Yseult, dark and beautiful, stark against the starry sky.

“Thank you,” they both said at the same time, and Tristan knew they both felt it 一 the very sudden but very strong infatuation that was cause for ruin more often than not. However, as Yseult lied down next to her and they watched the stars together, it was hard to think of ruin at all.

The days went by and turned into weeks, and then months. Tristan’s wounds healed, and the two women fled on foot, getting lost and turned around, hunting for food and cleaning scrapes and sharing stories and thoughts and falling into something new. Every day Yseult would come alive, more and more with every day that Acorn Kingdom fell further and further behind. Tristan saw her appetite grow, saw her eyes brighten with every passing day, saw her smile, heard her laugh, watched her spin around with delighted abandon in a field under the stars, a far cry from the empty shell she had first met, and when Tristan kissed her the first time, she felt Yseult’s arms wrap around her shoulders as she stood on tiptoe, and she couldn’t recall a time when she had felt so alive either.

Every night they watched the stars, and every morning they would wake up entwined. Tristan held on to Yseult, lovely Yseult, and knew that even if King Arthur turned them away, she would stay with her forever.

* * *

Tristan’s blade met with Gareth’s, the noise of impact echoing across the courtyard as both women wrenched their swords away and prepared for a counterstrike. Tristan grinned below her visor; she had missed sparring with her friends.

“Hey Tristan!” Lamorak called from the side, and the battle lulled as they both turned their heads to the side. “Your wife’s here!”

The chipmunk sighed, lifting her visor right as Yseult came into view beside Lamorak, following him onto the grass. “She’s not my wife.”

“She might as well be,” the hawk returned with a shrug, prompting a groan from Tristan and a giggle from Gareth.

“She’s already married to my uncle.”

“I don’t consider that marriage valid,” Yseult interjected calmly, bright green eyes resting on her lover’s face. “I might as well be yours.”

Tristan flushed as Lamorak let out a loud whistle, and she was spared from more of his teasing only by Gareth, who led the hawk away with a “Come, let us give them space to talk on their own.”

Yet even after those two left, they didn’t talk. Tristan took a moment to admire her Yseult, her soft smile, the flick of her ear, the way her hair blew in the wind, and when the lynx stepped forward to embrace her, Tristan held fast, feeling the warmth and breath and beating heart of someone who was, without a doubt, more alive than anyone else in the world, and was just starting to show everyone her true self.

Tristan’s relationship with Yseult was born of gut feelings and poorly-planned decisions, out of risk and sacrifice and the necessity of action.

And somehow, it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figures that my rewrite of SatBK Tristan and Yseult would be the longest chapter. You know what? They deserve it. These girls deserve the world.


	14. Mentor's Love (Longclaw & Arthur)

For centuries, there had been two ways of determining the next sovereign of their land: by heir, or by the sword. Longclaw had lived under two sovereigns, one as a child and then one more as a young adult, and had seen the royal position exchanged from mother to son. Becoming a royal advisor was no small task, but Longclaw thrived with a sense of duty and responsibility, reaping the results she helped create with a sense of pride and accomplishment. She served her king for years, watching him grow old with no spouse or children to speak of, and knew that she would see a ruler determined by the sword in the stone.

Hopefully. Caliburn was reputed to be very choosy, and sometimes decades would go by before someone was deemed worthy of holding him.

As luck would have it, Caliburn had made his decision before the passing of the king; a child, only ten years of age, with no training in court manners or politics. Longclaw knew better than to question the wisdom of Caliburn, and so she prepared herself to one day teach this child all he would need to know.

As a boy, he focused on his knight’s training, something he would have precious little time for once he was crowned. Longclaw would sometimes observe this boy, quick as lightning and reliant on impulse, unpredictable as the warring winds that swept the lands. She knew that a lot of work would have to be done in very little time, and when the king started to fall ill, she took her first steps to prepare young Arthur for his coronation, noting everything they would need to work on.

The boy was young. He had difficulty making big decisions with great consequences, preferring to let things work themselves out as many children would. He relied heavily on her to remind him of court manners and procedures, and trusted her words without question, even when she contradicted herself in a test to see whether or not he had been listening. He had a long way to go, both before and after the crown would be set on his head, and yet there was a stubborn earnestness about him, one that soothed most worries Longclaw had over whether or not he would truly put in the effort to succeed. She knew he would go far once he found his footing in the world of governance.

She was there when he was knighted as the old king lied on his deathbed, and she was there as the crown was set on his head and he made his first speech as the new king of Avalon. She was there as he struggled to wrap his mind around the complex world of governance, and helped him where she could, sometimes feeling more like a regent than an advisor. She saw the boy’s eyes grow tired and dull with paperwork, only to relight when he was given a chance to run with the knights and do some hands-on work. Even as he started to grow older, he never quite lost his boy’s heart, yearning for what adventures he could take and to touch the lives of others, forever changing them.

He was a remarkable one, that Arthur, and one to be proud of.

One day, he came back from an impromptu run on a rainy day, tracking mud with his boots, his spines windswept and his grin wide, even as Longclaw scolded him. “You’ve only a moment before you are to meet with the ambassador from Caerleon Kingdom. You cannot be looking like that!”

But the teen beamed at her, holding forth a bright yellow flower in his grasp, looking like the picture of boyish innocence. “I just… erm, sorry,  _ we  _ just wanted to extend to you a small token of our gratitude. We know we still have much to learn, and your patience with us is greatly appreciated.” He stepped forward, pressing the flower into her feathers, before giving a salute and turning away. “Now as you’ve said, I’ve got a meeting to get to soon, so I had better get cleaned up!”

Longclaw watched him go, shaking her head at this odd boy who raced the rain and only sometimes remembered to use the royal we and still decided to stop to smell the flowers, even with an important meeting to handle. Her feathers curled around his offering to her. She couldn’t be sure if he truly had picked it with her in mind, or if he had spontaneously picked it and then used it in an attempt to mollify her. Her beak clicked as she made her way to her study, placing it carefully on her desk, and she chose to believe that it was the former.

Arthur could be sentimental like that.

She grew older, watching that boy grow up under her wing, sometimes needing the extra push she could provide and sometimes seeking out her guidance on his own. The issues of Avalon were many, and Arthur grew under the pressure instead of shrinking, burning bright and fearless as much as he was able to in public. Longclaw had seen him at his greatest, and also at his worst. The day she practically had to force marriage upon him was one of the worst of her life; as much as she knew it was a necessary evil, she could only handle the look of utter defeat and desperation in his eyes for so long.

It was worse knowing that she was the cause, this time around.

And yet, Guinevere ended up being possibly the best decision Arthur had ever made. Longclaw made peace with her conscience knowing that.

Or, at least, that had seemed the case. When the rumors began spreading about the king’s personal life to the point that the castle was in a gossip-fueled frenzy, and Longclaw and a bunch of other advisors found themselves in a room facing the king, the queen, and the Ultimate Knight, all of them viciously defending their decisions, it seemed as though Arthur had built himself another hurdle to jump over, one higher than most.

And Longclaw decided she was done watching him struggle over this newest one.

_ “I suggest that we keep His Majesty’s private life private as it should be. So long as Camelot-born hearsay does not leave the castle, I do not care what he does on his own. It is none of my business, nor is it any of yours.” _

And though others spoke their dissent, the argument far from over, she saw the light return to Arthur’s eyes, and that was all that truly mattered. 

The next morning, she would find another flower on her desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one this time. Technical difficulties and a sort of drop in overall mood have been affecting my writing, but I'm still here!


	15. Aromantic Love (Gareth & Many)

Gareth was six years old when she saw her first wedding. She delighted in the celebration, the dancing and music and emotional tears being shed, and the lovely couple standing together, fingers intertwined, oblivious to all but each other, looking nervous but happy and, more than anything, certain.

“That will be you one day,” her father said, patting her head as they looked respectfully over at the newlyweds as they danced together, not a single person daring to disturb them as per tradition. The concept of getting married seemed wonderful to Gareth. To be celebrated, to be adored by someone for the rest of her life! Someone who would choose her above all else, cherish her above others… What a wonderful thing to be!

Yet, as she considered it, she couldn’t quite think of anyone who would fit that bill for her. She loved her friends dearly, and her brothers meant the world to her, but she couldn’t quite imagine herself dedicating her heart to a single person. She knew that romance was special, and that marriage was nothing to be taken lightly, with many teens and adults trying and hesitating with their relationships, but ultimately, finding the right one was a milestone to be celebrated.

Romance was a special type of love, one that she would only have for one person, she figured. She simply hadn’t found the one yet, and why would she have? She was a child, still holding her father’s hand as he guided her through Angel Village and practicing her reading with Gawain and Gaheris. She would find the one for her with time. Everyone did.

* * *

She started to think about romance again later on, older but still a child, learning about the world as she observed it. It happened all at once, as one of her friends admitted to being in love with a third friend of theirs. Gareth had felt an odd sensation at the confession, a mixture of fear and jealousy, one that made her sit and reflect.

_ Did she have feelings for one of her friends? _

It didn’t quite make sense to her. She loved her friends, certainly, but never had she considered any sort of other relationship with them. With this new revelation, she entertained the idea, but…

...it was uncomfortable. Imagining any of her friends looking at her with absolute adoration seemed wrong, and she knew that her own feelings weren’t the same. So why did she feel so off about the whole thing?

Perhaps she was afraid of being left behind. Perhaps the jealousy she felt was more akin to feeling replaced by something greater.

Gareth frowned, finding this new facet of love to be incredibly unsavory. Did falling in love truly mean that one would let all other relationships fall to the side, to make way for one ultimately important person? Gareth thought back to weddings, remembering how the couple was not allowed to dance with anyone but each other. Would that mean she would not be able to dance with her brothers on the day of her own wedding? With her friends? With her father?

She knew the answer was yes, and it hurt in a way that she couldn’t quite define.

Perhaps… Perhaps there was more to love than she had been taught, and not all of it good. She considered her father, and how he would never feel romantic love again now that her mother was dead, and thought that romance might actually be something very scary instead.

* * *

Gareth liked people. People were fun, and interesting, and had many stories to tell and opinions to give. When the warriors came back after a successful hunt or mission, she would listen to all of their stories individually, and would be struck by how different they all were. The world was big, and everyone saw parts of it that no others would, like a puzzle where everyone had their own pieces.

Gareth was very happy to be around others, feeling joy when someone would ask her to accompany them, or when she was able to join groups of others to play or to duel. People were wonderful. Even the not-so-wonderful ones had aspects to them that made Gareth’s world feel more complete.

It was very different to how Gawain liked people. Her brother seemed to have a new crush every week; it would be the boy who defeated him at arm wrestling, then it would be the girl who secretly gave him two pastries even though he only paid for one, then it would be that other person who charmed Gawain simply by being mysterious. Gawain’s crushes never seemed to last long, but there was always something _certain_ about them. Gawain knew, though he struggled and flustered and got angry whenever Gareth tried to ask him about it.

“I don’t know! Go ask Gaheris!”

So Gareth asked Gaheris, whose crushes were fewer and far in between, and only got more confused by his answers.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as though being around a crush makes your world seem brighter and you forget all else.”

Gareth’s friends and family made her world feel bright. The world would disappear when she played games with her friends or spent time with her family, yet she was certain she hadn’t any crushes on any of them.  Still, she thanked her brother, puzzling over the confusing dilemma that was romance.

Perhaps… perhaps she simply wasn’t the sort to have crushes? Maybe she would fall in love one day, instantly and completely? Yes, that must be it.

And yet, whenever she considered herself with a shadowy, faceless person that was her imaginary true love, she could only ever think of someone showing that kind of deep, indescribable love to her. She could never quite imagine her feeling the same in return.

Perhaps she was selfish, or cruel when it came to romance.

Gareth didn’t want to get married anymore.

* * *

Gawain’s letter of triumph came to Angel Village amidst a round of cheers. Gareth beamed and danced with Gaheris, ecstatic that her little brother had fulfilled his dream of becoming a knight for King Arthur. When the letter fell into her hands, she looked over his account of heeding her warnings about how different the world outside their village was, about how he had impressed the king by scaling his castle walls and by clashing blades with Sir Lancelot.

Gawain then went on for a few paragraphs about Sir Lancelot, and how he fought, and how he had finally found a true worthy rival, and Gareth knew this was Gawain’s newest infatuation.

But at the end of his letter, he urged her and Gaheris to come join him, detailing how life in Camelot was fantastic, but very different from what he knew. Gawain didn’t go nearly as far into detail about it, but Gareth could tell he was feeling very alone in a new world that wasn’t made for him, finding puzzle pieces that didn’t fit with any of his and struggling to force them together regardless.

Gareth took up her blade the next morning, practicing with Gaheris until they both felt their legs buckle below them. She would do anything for Gawain, and Gaheris would, too.

Family was everything to them, after all.

* * *

Caliburn descended on one shoulder, then the next, and Sir Gareth, Knight of Aura, kissed King Arthur’s gauntlet to seal her pledge to her kingdom and its people, feeling her nerves tighten and her heart pound and her smile grow. Never in her life had she felt such an overwhelming sense of fulfillment and certainty and excitement for her future.

As she took her place among the Knights of the Round Table with the newly appointed Sir Gaheris, she wondered if, perhaps, this was how being in love felt.

* * *

There were times when Gareth wondered if the reason why she never seemed to get crushes was because she had a crush on everyone.

The thought was far from comforting.

* * *

Gareth grew older, gained more experience, and developed a new sense of attraction that she never expected. She started to notice bodies more, how they moved and how they were shaped, discovering preferences and a curiosity to how it would feel if she just… maybe…

Was that wrong of her? Was it wrong to desire someone without…  _ desiring  _ them? Was it rude, or perverse, or…?

…Maybe she really did need to just find the one.

* * *

A night out was a rare treat, and a night out with friends was even better. Lamorak and Tristan both argued on their way to the bar 一 a typical occurrence 一 until the gorgeous tavern lady took their orders and left to fetch their drinks. All three knights followed her with their eyes, Lamorak whistling quietly once she was out of earshot.

“That one’s a beaut, eh Tris?” he remarked, nudging Tristan with his shoulder.

The chipmunk tried and failed to resist rolling her eyes, but she admitted, “One of the prettier ones I’ve seen.” She nudged Lamorak in return. “Want me to ask if she’s single for you?”

Yet the hawk scoffed. “Come now, Tris. You know I don’t do that whole ‘dating’ thing.”

Gareth’s ears perked up, and the question fell from her lips before she could stop it. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No. Why would it?” Lamorak clicked his beak impatiently, already seeming frustrated, as though he had had this conversation too many times to count. “I know what I want, and what I don’t. I know that I don’t care for dating, or marriage, or settling down, and I won’t let anyone tell me that my way of enjoying my own life is wrong.” Gareth stared at him, blinking in amazement, and Lamorak’s feathers started to ruffle under her gaze. “Anyhow, it’s not as though I lead anyone on! I’m very upfront about what I’m going for and--”

“I understand,” Gareth interrupted softly.

Lamorak’s look of surprise quickly morphed into one of haughty smugness, and he turned to nudge Tristan again. “See? She gets it.”

She understood more than she could possibly say.

There was no ‘the one’. There was no impeccably precise way to love and be loved. Gareth had plenty of love in her heart, love that made her friends and family her world, and a job that she loved, one that allowed her to reach out to others, to keep them safe and happy. Gareth loved people, but she wouldn’t be in love with people. Gareth loved, but she loved in her own way. She had spent so long trying to fit a missing piece into her own puzzle that she never considered that the piece might not exist for her in the first place.

To know that it _wasn’t_ there, that it was _never_ there, that it didn’t _have_ to be there, that it was _okay_ that it wasn’t there…

...it was more freeing than anything else in the world, and as the tavern lady handed her her drink with a smile and a wink, Gareth felt like nothing could hold her back ever again.

Her heart was warm with the love that belonged to her, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *adds this to the list of chapters I almost teared up at while writing*


	16. Love Between Spouses (Arthur & Guinevere)

Arthur never wanted to get married. There was always something terrifying about the term, as though he would be shackled to someone, and though he supposed if he liked someone enough he wouldn’t mind devoting more time and attention to them, there was something so  _ permanent  _ and  _ stifling  _ about the word that made him turn away from it without a second thought.

He knew it wasn’t really everything he was making it out to be. His parents were married and very happy with it. When, as a child, he had asked _why_ they got married, Uther had sat his son on his lap before very seriously explaining the various tax benefits and land ownership that could come with a spouse before Igraine tapped his head with a newspaper. Uther laughed, dropping his act, and explained that marriage meant something different to different people. He had married his wife because he believed in the symbolism of marriage, of joining two souls in a promise of faith and love.

_ You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to, son. Not everyone does. _

Twenty years later, as Arthur looked through eligible spouses and tore at his quills, he wished that were still the case.

* * *

Guinevere feared getting married. There was always something painfully oxymoronic about being a noble born in a military kingdom, where high birth essentially removed oneself from the affairs of the kingdom as a whole, and pushed every one of the same class into a bubble where everyone knew everyone else. Even as a child, her parents brought her to stuffy, high-society events, made her shake hands with countless people, adults and children, drilling their names into her head until she could recite them like a list. She was told she would wed one of these people when she was of age, and having no words to trust but those of her parents, she believed it, smiling stiffly at the other children and resigning herself to a lifetime of everything remaining the same.  


But Guinevere wanted a different life, a life where she could go where she wanted, do as she pleased, love as far as she felt comfortable with, and forgo the boring parties with the agonizing war talk with the people she knew by name through exceedingly tedious quizzes. She dreamed of this life, through the years of obedience and heavy study, of feeling like a puppet, of feeling like she was bound to a carriage with only one destination, and nights when she fell asleep, silently hoping she would never wake up.

She fought for her freedom when she was finally sick of it all. She fought and ran and used what she had been taught to her advantage, broadening her world and expanding her horizons. She traveled, she flirted, she drank, she lived… and when a suitor would come forth, the memory of her bleak, empty childhood and hopeless future flashed back before her eyes and the rejection was instant.

The rejection was doubly harsh when she realized and came to terms with herself, her body, and what she wanted and didn’t want, unable to gamble away the freedom of choosing and defining her own limits.  


Her parents grew angry and frustrated, reminding her that being a spinster at her age was unbecoming and cost their family’s reputation, but Guinevere had long since given up on her parents ever understanding her.

When they answered the royal letter of interest for her, telling her that a king’s proposal was something she was unable to refuse, unless she desired the walls of a convent for the rest of her life, her only comfort was the secret note hidden in the envelope’s folds.

* * *

Neither had wanted to get married, but even though they had had the choice not to be taken from them, they couldn’t say they were unhappy.

They got along incredibly well; it was as though their letters to each other had been a sign of things to come, of working together and bouncing off of each other and understanding what the other wanted. They wanted freedom. They wanted choice. They wanted challenge without overwhelm, adventure without consequence, and if they were to have a marriage, they wanted one without expectations.

To their delight, it worked out for the best for them. It wasn’t a union that turned into resentful silence, nor did it become a playground for destructive behavior mixed with harsh words. Arthur and Guinevere enjoyed each other’s company, and genuinely did look forward to spending time with their spouse. They compared interests, combining some together and discovering new ones. Guinevere still laughed at Arthur’s inability to conquer the hurdle that was basic ballroom dancing, while Arthur hooted with laughter at Guinevere’s own incompetence at his personal style of dancing.

_ I can’t believe I’ve found something that you’re bad at! _

_ Shut up, you! At least I haven’t crushed your toes! _

They were two forces of nature, powerful enough on their own, but complementary to each other, and they built off of each other’s strength and smarts, reaching new heights and conquering problems as large as mountains as though they were ankle-height. There was something between the two that resonated so well that anyone around them could sense it.  It was in the way that Arthur would sometimes sling an arm over her shoulders. It was in the way Guinevere would poke him in the chest while grinning widely. It was in the boastful way that Arthur would introduce her to newcomers, or the way Guinevere would cut in during social gatherings that had him overwhelmed.

_ And this is my  _ **_wife._ **

_ I hope my  _ **_husband’s_ ** _ not boring you too badly! _

_Wife. Husband._ Words that once struck fear into their hearts were now as casual as any other, and slipped off the tongue like the word ‘friend’ would.

Arthur and Guinevere loved each other… just not in the way most would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur: *John Mulaney voice* THAT'S MY WIFE!
> 
> Sonouge is quickly becoming a strong BROTP and I have no regrets.


	17. Immortal Love (Nimue & All)

If asked how she came to be who she was, Nimue would be unable to give an answer. Her origins were hazy at best, nonexistent at worst; all she could remember, as far back as her memory would go, was living at her lake, watching the days go by as she filled her time with whatever small comforts she could attain. If there had been a beginning to her existence, it was long gone by now, and time continued to pass. It passed and passed and passed on by, and Nimue and her lake still remained.

She had the patience of a saint, the tool of any immortal being, or an adaptation to keep one from losing their head. With patience came knowledge, and with knowledge came wisdom. Nimue taught herself magic, water-based spells that the lake provided her, and she practiced and practiced, mastering her craft until she was able to make spells of her own design.

With her own two hands, she made Excalibur, a sword bound to her life essence, whose scabbard carried the same curse as she. She based it off of and linked it to the sacred sword Caliburn, who had fallen into her lake one day, so long ago. Nimue had been delighted at the company, holding her first conversation as far as she could remember, and so it was with him in mind that she created her own sword, silent but powerful, and as she wielded it, she had been filled with an overwhelming sense of yearning. The desire to run across the globe, her weapon drawn and at the ready, prepared to strike down any attackers that came her way… it coursed through her body like blood through her veins, and yet… and yet…

She was trapped. Nimue could only go so far outside her lake before a force more powerful than herself rooted her to the spot. She could never make it as far as the tree line which separated her home from the forest surrounding it. She had never even touched a tree.

But what could she do about it?

It wasn’t all bad. Nimue’s studies filled her waking hours, and when night fell, she rested as a mortal would, enjoying a respite from eternity, and sometimes, with any luck, someone would happen by her lake, and Nimue would be able to talk to someone again.

The years passed and turned into centuries, and Nimue found friends, took lovers, made a name for herself and allowed her reputation to spread across the land, and lost everything over and over again. Every time yet another important person to her died and never came back, Nimue grieved something awful, but she couldn’t let herself stop. Her heart, broken and healed too many times to count, refused to stop letting people in. Her romantic soul told her never to push an interest away to spare herself. Even when she discovered that she was barren, that children were an impossibility, that no matter how desperate she was, she would never have an eternal companion, she refused to isolate herself any more than she was already forced to.

She would rather be in pain, over and over again until she had no tears left to shed, than be lonely once more.

Still, she had to wait for others to come to her. Even as she taught herself how to project her image across the land, ‘visiting’ those she loved, Nimue knew she wasn’t truly with them. She was bound to her lake by an invisible contract she couldn’t remember signing, and she couldn’t help but wonder what would become of herself if Misty Lake were ever destroyed. Would she be free? Would she disappear instantly? Both possibilities frightened and intrigued her, but her home stayed pristine and untouched by disaster.

She was a warrior who couldn’t fight. A lover who would lose everyone she cared for. One of the most powerful people in the land who couldn’t even find a way to leave her home. Sometimes Nimue wondered if the reason she couldn’t remember her origin was because she was being punished for committing an unspeakable sin, and this was her repentance.

And then she found Lancelot.

The instant she had held the terrified, soaking wet baby in her arms, had felt the warmth of his soul and had sensed the greatness he would achieve, she knew he was hers. She held him, clutched him to her chest, knowing she couldn’t be a full-time caregiver for a mortal boy but still unwilling to give up her first ever chance at being a mother. Even as she handed him over to his new grandfather, Nimue’s heart stayed with him, and every time he visited thereafter was one of the brighter points of her existence.

She watched him grow and become strong and smart and handsome. She saw him become the warrior she had always dreamed of becoming. She watched him run through the trees with Arthur, another boy with the glimmer of freedom in his eyes, bound to a destiny he couldn’t escape. She saw her son inherit her romantic heart, to her delight and chagrin, and saw that no matter how much he suffered, no matter how much loss and pain and heartbreak he endured, he still couldn’t stop letting others in. Nimue wished with all her heart that she could have been there, with him, as every episode of pain entered his life and he was left scarred in more ways than one.

Well… she had been able to comfort him once. Once, when he ran to her with a crazed, remorseful, agonized look in his eyes, and she held him as he cried, speaking of committing an act of violence so foul against his fellow knights, all because he feared and felt shame over the feelings he couldn’t hide in his heart any longer. Nimue soothed him as he wept into her shoulder, feeling his fear with him as Lancelot begged to go back in time to stop himself from launching such a fierce attack, having put two knights in intensive care, knowing that he might as well have killed them…

Lancelot cried and shook and gripped on to her, and Nimue shed some tears with him, finally feeling like a true mother in the most bittersweet kind of way.

Lancelot had also given her Galahad, and Nimue adored her grandson to the stars and above. From the moment those wide golden eyes had landed on her, Nimue had felt the same pull as she had felt toward Lancelot, the same knowledge that this was, without a shadow of a doubt, her family. She watched him grow as well with the years passing mercilessly, a boy so powerful and pure-hearted and destined for greatness, just like his father. It didn’t seem to matter that their family was made from choice rather than blood, for she saw plenty of herself in Lancelot, and plenty of them both in Galahad. Her family was small, and it grew slowly, but it was good and strong, and the love she carried for them was more powerful than any magic she could conjure on her own.

She knew that, one day, they, too, would pass and fade into nothing, but Nimue couldn’t bring herself to regret having them in her life, making her existence something beautiful and to be cherished rather than an endless cycle of waiting for something to happen. Nimue couldn’t regret her family.

Nimue loved so completely and with so much of herself that it was almost impossible for her to distinguish herself from those she cared about. Sometimes, Nimue had to wonder if she was, perhaps, a spirit of Avalon itself, harboring love for everyone therein. The Lady of the Lake loved her home, and wished for only the best for it. She would play her part, on the outside looking in, and accept what she had while she had it, and once what she loved was gone, she would weep and grieve and scream…

...and then she would open her heart once more, because there was no other way for her to exist, and what else could an immortal being do, but exist?

Nimue would love forever. That was her blessing and her curse, equal parts beautiful and terrible, and she would keep on going until, perhaps, a choice to make it stop was finally given to her.

But even if such a choice existed, Nimue didn’t know what she would decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nimue's existence is love and pain and I wish I had more of a role for her in the overall scheme of things, but in the end, she truly is someone destined to watch.


	18. Love Through Trust (Guinevere & Gawain)

Guinevere closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and relishing the scent of approaching rain riding the wind. It blew past her face, lifting her hair up and away from her face, and for a moment it felt as though she were flying, swooping downwards, twisting in the air, knowing that no matter what she did, she would touch the ground when she wished to. She exhaled through her nose, eyes slowly blinking open as they looked to the sky.

Despite it being the afternoon, she could see the moon in the sky, a crescent of pearly white against a stripe of blue. On the horizon, the dark clouds approached, reaching forth with the promise of rain, and Guinevere pulled her shawl more firmly around her shoulders as she continued her stroll through the castle’s courtyard.  Any respite, no matter how brief, from castle politics and governance was a blessing. The months had become busier as of late, with less chances to go out and find her treasures, and so with every spare moment, Guinevere went outside, trying her hardest to keep herself from going stir-crazy. The coming rain only warned of even less chances to get outdoors, much to her displeasure.

Guinevere sighed, making her way over to one of the rosebushes, touching a withering flower delicately with her fingertips. The colder, wetter months were coming forth, with the skies darkening earlier and the clouds blocking the sun, and the world seeming just a bit more empty, save for the moon, consistently there when the skies were clear, a small comfort in the middle of an expanse of nothingness. She stood up again, looking back to the skies as the wind picked up again.

“Stare at the sun for too long and you’ll go blind, Your Majesty.”

The queen’s ear twitched toward the voice, and a small smile made its way to her lips.

“Now why would I be looking at the sun when the moon is right there to be admired?” she responded smoothly, turning around to face the speaker. “What kind of fool do you take me for, Sir Gawain?”

Violet eyes widened before shifting away. Gawain was without armor, his gear still at the forge for repairs, and it was an absolute  _ treat  _ to see his face redden in embarrassment. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to imply--”

“Hush, Gawain, I know what you meant,” Guinevere soothed, taking a few steps toward him. “Now, what brings you to the courtyard, hmm?”

Gawain shifted, uncrossing his arms, and Guinevere’s attention was drawn to the white crescent shape on his chest, so similar to the one in the sky above. “I wished to accompany you,” he admitted, bringing her attention back to his face. “If that’s fine by you.”

Guinevere blinked once in surprise; Gawain was rarely the one to initiate their little meetings. There must have been something important on his mind, then. “Of course,” she returned, dropping most of the playful pretense that came naturally to their banter. “Come with me.”

They walked side by side, facing forward, though the queen would glance to the side now and again to see the guardian pressing his mouth into a thin line, struggling with something unsaid. As she waited patiently for him to put his thoughts to words, her eyes darted back to the moon on his chest, and she felt her smile return as her gaze went back to the mirror image in the sky. The moon… looming above, not always in sight but consistently there, watching over them all…

It suited him.

She heard a sharp intake of breath coming from the side, then a defeated exhale. She knew it was time to intervene.

“So what brings you to me today?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “I know it’s not another update on my emerald.”

“And what makes you so sure about that?” he returned, finding his voice in an instant to challenge her, and it was like a fire to her soul, engaging her wit and playfulness.

“Because you gave me an update just yesterday,” she replied, unable to pull back her grin at the look of delayed mortification on his face. “And I’m sure you would have said something about it by now were that the case.”

Gawain turned his head away, mumbling words that she couldn’t catch under his breath. Guinevere smirked, looking ahead once more, but a sense of trepidation caught her as she realized she still had no idea what he was struggling with.

Well… she had _one_ idea. An unpleasant one, a reminder of the night she had come across him in this very same courtyard, a blade to his neck…

Guinevere tensed up at the memory, and of many other instances when she had come across the guardian, haunted by the same musings that had plagued him that night. “You… You haven’t been having those thoughts again, have you?” she asked quietly, and Gawain’s hand shot up to his neck, rubbing against the small thin scar that lay underneath the red fur as though he, too, was remembering that night.

“No,” he admitted, and Guinevere felt herself relax. “Not lately.”

“You still haven’t told your siblings about it?”

“Of course not! How could I ever tell them… that there was a point that not even they…” Gawain’s fists clenched as he tried to calm down. “It’s still only you that knows, and… I’d rather keep it that way.”

Guinevere hummed, leaning over to nudge him lightly with her shoulder. “As you wish. But… I would rest easier knowing you have someone aside from me to talk to about it. Should things ever get worse, and I am unable to help you…”

“I shall be fine. I am the one to be guarding you, not the other way around,” he said, firm as to make sure there was no debate. Then, softer, “Trust me. I have no intention of ever holding a sword to my throat again.”

And though she wanted to debate, just out of habit, the bat relented. “Okay. Okay… I trust you.”

And she meant it.

A small smile spread across Gawain’s face, gentle and warm. A lovely smile, one that was absolutely worth conceding for… but it vanished in an instant as whatever had been bothering the red knight came back up to the surface, and he appeared to be tormented again. Guinevere decided that she was done watching him struggle.

“Then what is on your mind?” she urged, and for a moment, Gawain looked absolutely helpless before he let out a resigned sigh.

“I don’t understand… they should have faded by now.”

Guinevere’s eyes narrowed. “What should have faded?”

The echidna’s eyes dropped to the ground, and his mouth struggled to let the words out. “My feelings… usually they don’t last this long…”

Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat and her eyes widened. Were they really going to have  _ this  _ conversation?  _ Now? _ “What feelings?” she demanded, more forcefully than she wanted, and she was met with a glare from her companion.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” he growled, face flushed with embarrassment, and he was right. Guinevere knew what he meant, and her own face grew warm as she looked firmly ahead, wondering how to continue.

It was inevitable that this would come up. She had known it for a while. The mutual attraction, the mutual interest... It had been building, slowly but surely, with every interaction they had, from the first time she had stolen Galatine from his hands to asking him to dance on the night of the wedding, from taking him on several adventures to catching him in the courtyard that night. To the moment they traded their most prized possessions in a display of trust and a promise of growth. To Gawain’s steadfast and consistent efforts to find the emerald shards and bring them back to her. To Guinevere’s frequent and careful checks on the state of Gawain’s psyche. To the laughs they shared, the respect they built, the pushes and jabs they threw at each other to keep things interesting...

All the way to right now.

For so long, their relationship had been odd to define, as they danced around the subject, with one happy to wait for the other to come to terms with what they were feeling and what they wanted. A lot of unspoken understandings went between them, unsaid boundaries and pleas to wait, all culminating to this moment when they would put it all before them.

Guinevere exhaled softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her shoulder. It was now. There was no more putting this off. “Very well. Yes, I know what you meant. And… I’m sure you know my feelings on the matter.”

Gawain swallowed, also choosing to look forward. “All too well.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

A short, bitter bark of laughter left the knight, prompting a frown from the queen as she knew where this conversation was about to head. “That’s just it, isn’t it? You know how I… You know my thoughts. On marriage and what it means to me.”

“Of course I do,” Guinevere replied dryly. “I’ve been hearing you struggle to come to terms with Arthur and Lancelot for a while now.”

“And I’m happy for them!” Gawain insisted as his frustrations bubbled to the surface. “Truly, I am! The king’s happiness means a great deal to me, but it… it goes against everything I was taught for so long. For a married man to... and for me to... for a married woman..." The knight groaned and gripped at the spines around his head. "It’s not so easy to just… just completely  _ change  _ a view you’ve had for most of your life!”

Guinevere bit her lip, looking back up to the sky. The clouds had covered the moon by that point, and the sky offered no answers. She knew that Gawain had gone through a great deal, trying to balance his upbringing with a world that was rushing forth with or without him. She had seen him do his best to run along with it, with everyone, despite his misgivings. The knight had put aside so many discomforts for her sake, for Arthur’s sake, for the sake of the other knights. Gawain was brave in so many ways that she didn’t always recognize, and maybe… maybe it was time that she started to meet him halfway instead of always dragging him along.

“Would you like to hear what I want?” she asked softly. 

A microscopic fraction of the weight of Gawain’s conundrum lifted from the Guardian Knight’s shoulders, and he glanced over at her with a small nod of his head, dropping his hands from his spines. Gently, carefully, Guinevere slipped her hand into his, holding fast as he jolted, his instincts roaring at him to run away and to hold back and never let go. She had seen it in his eyes, in his body language for a long while, and it was time to finally let it be put to rest. Her thumb trailed softly against the back of his hand as she considered how to put what she was thinking into words.

“I want to give it a try,” she said, making sure her voice was clear, removing all flirty undertones so that he knew she was serious. “Just a try. I know… I know it’s not easy for you, not in the way it is for me, so if you ever…” She cleared her throat, annoyed at how bashful she was feeling as Gawain’s eyes fixed on her. “...if you ever find that this is not something you can maintain, you only need to let me know, and I will let you go. But so long as there is a chance that we could make something work… I would rather have tried and failed than never tried at all.”

Their stroll had ceased; Guinevere felt the winds start to blow again, streaming through her hair and darting around her dress, sending a small chill through her body as she waited.

“...In that case, I’ll… I’ll do it.”

The queen’s eyes widened and her head snapped to the side, staring back at him in amazement. She hadn’t expected an answer that soon, or perhaps even at all that day. She had anticipated letting Gawain mull it over for a while, but the knight was looking at her, still nervous and confused and uncertain, but firm in his choice. His hand squeezed hers in a silent promise as his mouth said, “If that’s what you want.”

And Guinevere, completely blown away, could only nod mutely. A small grin played on Gawain’s mouth, as though he took some pride at stunning her speechless, but it gave way as the reality of the situation dropped down on him.

“But… But don’t get any funny ideas!” he warned, fumbling over his words. “There’s still some things I absolutely won’t do with a married woman, so I won’t be… Don’t expect me to… to  _ gallivant  _ around with you!”

Guinevere broke out of her stupor at that, laughing loudly and freely, bending at the middle and trying and failing at suppressing her snorts. “Oh… Oh dear Gaia…!” She calmed down, laughter subsiding into a giggle as Gawain stood there, red-faced. “My darling Gawain, do not worry about that. I’ve never been the sort to, ah,  _ gallivant  _ with anyone at all, regardless of my relationship with them.”

The knight blinked, somehow going even redder, and looked away. “Well… good! That’s settled then!”

Guinevere continued to giggle, squeezing his hand in turn. “My goodness, that seemed to weigh on your mind quite a bit. Was that what had you so worried?”

“A-As if I would focus on something like that! Don’t think such things about me!”

They continued as they usually did, bickering and laughing, challenging each other with words and jests, but now their hands stayed together, another unspoken promise between them, communicated by the occasional squeeze of the hand.  It would take a lot of work. Guinevere knew this. But she hadn’t been lying when she said that she wanted to give it a true, honest shot. She trusted Gawain to let her know if he couldn’t keep it up, just as Gawain trusted her to guide him along as he tried to shift his understandings, and to meet him halfway when he couldn’t find his way forward.

They both ran inside as the first drops of rain fell and the sky grew dark, but Guinevere no longer had to look at the sky to see her moon.

They would figure it out. She knew they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned recently that the white shape on Knuckles' chest is supposed to represent the moon while the circle on Sonic's chest is supposed to represent the sun and I was slammed with more celestial symbolism.


	19. Love Through Camaraderie (All)

The late risers always had the last pick of food in the mornings, but that never made breakfast any less enjoyable. Smithy rubbed at his eyes as he made his way into the dining hall, momentarily distracted by the sight of Bors tossing a grape high up in the air. The fruit made a high arc in the air before descending fast, right into Gawain’s awaiting mouth. The echidna chewed, a smile on his face as Bors hooted, pumping his fists into the air to celebrate his victory.

The fox gave a small chuckle at the display before going over to where the food awaited, immediately taking what meat options were available before someone else swooped in and took them first.

“None left for me, then?”

Smithy’s ears perked up at the voice, the corner of his mouth lifting. He dropped a few pieces of bacon back onto the serving plate, shifting to the side to let Enid take what he wanted as well. Though Smithy would claim every last piece of meat if he could, Enid was a special exception to his ‘no mercy’ rule.

The smiths took their plates to a table, both too groggy to make conversation, and from across the way, Yseult and Merlina came to sit with them, murmuring quiet hellos. Ever since the two women had found that they shared the same unusual habit of sprinkling salt on their porridge, they tended to eat breakfast together. The group ate slowly, all blinking sleep from their eyes and watching the continued efforts of Bors and Gawain to turn breakfast into a sport. 

“May I?” a soft voice asked. Smithy turned his head, rather surprised to see Gareth standing there, stifling a yawn, but he waved her forward, allowing her to pull up a chair among them.

“Night shift?” Enid asked sympathetically.

“Mmm,” Gareth hummed in response, nodding her head. “Both Geraint and I answered an emergency at around midnight. Took a while to sort everything out.” She paused, her fork suspended over her plate as she turned to look at the wolf. “Speaking of, where is Geraint? He’s not still asleep, is he?”

“He was when I left him,” Enid replied with a sigh. “It’s a shame… I was going to show him the best ways to do maintenance on his sword this morning…”

Yseult tilted her head, one ear flicking in curiosity. “That’s smart of you. The more knights that can look after their tools, the less labor you must go through.”

Enid smirked, eyes glinting, and Smithy felt a sense of dread. “Yes, well, that’s true. But in Geraint’s case, it’s also making sure he looks after his engagement present. However, I can’t say I’m against him being… a  _ jack-al _ of all trades?”

Smithy didn’t bother to disguise his groan. Enid’s love of wordplay 一 especially  _ terrible _ wordplay 一 resulted in frequent jokes, and the wolf thrived on the fox’s reactions. Yseult, meanwhile, appeared more confused than anything else for a moment before it clicked for her.

“Ah… That was a joke.”

“It was,” Merlina confirmed, and with that, Yseult started to eat again. “I must say, though, I’m a little surprised that he hasn’t joined us… He seems the sort that would never sleep.”

“Not at all,” Enid proclaimed. “I’ve seen him take more naps than anyone else I have ever encountered.”

“He had issues sleeping for years,” Gareth remarked as she took a sip of water. “I’ve found that the smell of peppermint invigorates him, for whatever reason.”

“I’ll have to try that,” Enid mused, swishing his tail back and forth.

“I have some extracts--” Merlina started to say, until a cry interrupted her.

“SHIT! I FORGOT TO FEED MY SON!”

Everyone at the table turned their heads to watch as Bors scrambled his way to the serving tables, hurriedly pouring some honey on a slice of toast, before barrelling out of the dining hall without a second glance. Gawain looked over their way, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and tossed a grape high into the air…

...and it landed with a barely-audible thunk on his forehead, to which Gareth shrieked with laughter, and despite the heaviness of sleep still having a hold on him, Smithy laughed as well.

* * *

Bedivere flexed his fingers as he walked down the halls to the library, first stretching all the joints on his left hand… and then nervously wiggling the appendages on his new right prosthetic. Smithy and Merlina were incredible at their crafts, and together they had produced him nothing short of a miracle.  First, he tested the thumb. It moved just fine, though Bedivere couldn’t quite control the speed at which he wiggled it. That seemed to be a problem across all the fingers, the movements being sudden and harsh, sometimes delayed, but the chameleon knew that with time, he would master their use.

He was so focused on controlling the movements that he almost missed the noises until he had nearly passed the door. He paused, looking into an open room to his left, and there was Galahad, standing with his back turned.

“Hello,” the boy said, seemingly to no one. Then, at a lower pitch, he said it again. And then again, struggling to go even lower, but it sounded strained and, most likely, far from what he wanted to sound like.

Bedivere hesitated. He knew what Galahad was doing. He had done it himself, back in the day, though not a soul knew about that. Still, the boy was going to see few results going about it like that, and he could already see the teen’s spines raise in frustration.

“Hel- _ lo. _ ” Galahad coughed, his voice having cracked and risen back to its usual pitch, and Bedivere decided that he could impart a bit of wisdom.

“Vocal training is a lengthy process,” he said, and Galahad jumped, whirling around to face the Silent Knight. “You won’t go to where you want in an instant.”

“I…” Galahad blushed, looking down at his feet in embarrassment. “I know… I just… I simply want…”

“Here’s a good place to start,” Bedivere said, and Galahad looked up, eyes wide. “First, start humming at your normal pitch.” At the young hedgehog’s uncertain look, his own voice softened. “Trust me. I’ve read a few books on it.”

Galahad swallowed, clenching his fists and nodding his head. He hummed out a flat note, waiting for his next instructions.

“Now bend your neck forward, to meet your chin with your chest.”

The boy obeyed, and golden eyes widened in shock as they both heard his pitch drop a little lower.

“Now raise your head slowly and keep that new pitch. Then bend forward again.”

Galahad did as he was told, only pausing in his humming for breath, following the instruction to repeat until his voice wouldn’t go any lower.

“There you are,” Bedivere said. “Practice speaking at that pitch for a while until it becomes easy for you to do. It may take a while, but eventually you’ll find that you’re able to go deeper with time. Ultimately, however, if you want to make more effective and permanent vocal changes, talk to your father about getting help from Merlina. I would suggest only doing so after you’ve finished most of your growing; to change something drastically while still growing into a new phase of life may prove to have unfortunate consequences.”

“That’s amazing!” Galahad exclaimed, before stopping and remembering to control his pitch. “You’re so knowledgeable, Sir Bedivere! Thank you so much for assisting me!”

For a moment, Bedivere was tempted to let Galahad know exactly why he was so well-studied at voice techniques… but ultimately decided against it. That was something only he knew, and for now, he preferred to keep it that way.

“Of course, Sir Galahad. Remember, keep practicing in the meantime.”

The teen gave him a small, joyful salute, going back to speaking aloud, now at a pitch that he could maintain, and as he walked away, Bedivere had a small smile on his face.

* * *

“There we go! You catch on so quickly!”

Lancelot let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding as Gareth spun away from, and then back to him. “You’re an excellent teacher,” he returned, but the echidna laughed, stepping away again as their dance continued.

“Don’t be so quick to undermine yourself,” she replied. “I’ve only just scarcely started teaching you Angel Village's dances, and I would say you’re already an intermediate.”

Lancelot wanted to reply that, once again, that was due to Gareth’s incredible teaching, but he held his tongue, remembering what she just said to him. “Thank you very much,” he said instead, and she beamed at him.

The dark knight’s eyes lingered on the scar on the side of her head as she turned to the side, and he knew that, hidden under her spines, the tip of her ear was missing, and his gut clenched like a vice. He knew it was his fault. He knew that he had done that.

And yet Gareth still was happy to teach him her village’s way of dancing, and even with his guilt, it was still an enjoyable experience.

“You’re very steady on your feet,” came a second voice, another one that slammed a feeling of remorse into his heart. Gaheris sat to the side, watching them both move and twist and come together and apart, tapping a rhythm for them to follow. “Not to mention, your lead is fantastic.”

Lancelot didn’t deserve such praise from two people he had hurt beyond compare, but to refuse it would be worse. “Thank you very much,” he said again, trying his hardest not to think of the time he had watched Gaheris dance off with Gawain for so long at Arthur’s wedding, and now…

_ Stop it, _ he told himself.  _ Gaheris can still walk. He can run for short distances. He can still dance sometimes. You haven’t taken that away from him, and don’t you dare start making this about yourself. They’ve forgiven you… accept it and move on with them. _

As he and Gareth weaved their legs through the complicated final steps, Gaheris started applauding. Gareth, in a show of good humor, spun to the side and lowered her head in a bow, and Lancelot, taking the cue, bowed in tandem. The armadillo rose to his feet, steadying himself against the wall.

“My turn.”

Gareth’s hand slid out of Lancelot’s, and Gaheris’ slid in its place. Lancelot readjusted their positions into one that he was more familiar with; in addition to him learning Angel Village’s dances, he had offered to teach them more mainstream Avalonian social dances, to which Gaheris had expressed interest in learning. “Start with your left foot,” Lancelot reminded him, and they set off into a standard turn, travelling across the room.

Some days, Gaheris’ leg hurt too much for him to participate. Other days, it dragged across the floor, unable to move precisely as it should.

But today, neither possibility seemed to be ailing Gaheris, and the Peaceful Knight kept up with him, stumbling only through missteps, not pain. The armadillo laughed as they fumbled through a spin-turn, and Lancelot smiled softly.

Gaheris and Gareth were having fun with him, and he was eternally glad for it.

* * *

“Then I suppose… I should reclaim that bit of land…”

“Don’t fall for it,” Percival interrupted Galahad’s musings, pointing at the map where all manner of colorful markers were scattered. “It’s an ambush, see? The instant you move there, Lamorak or Kay could take out the troops you sent from the North and East.” She pointed lower on the map. “If you move here, on the other hand, you’ve a much better chance of claiming the mountains.”

“Traitor,” Lamorak accused as Galahad pondered over her suggestions.

Percival smirked back at her brother. “You betrayed me first when you teamed up with Kay to chase me from the desert.”

“Siding against me, your own flesh and blood!” Lamorak continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “For shame, Perce! Let the kid decide on his own--”

“You’re right!” Galahad said, moving one of his markers to where she suggested. “I’ll do that instead. Thank you, Percival, you’re truly brilliant at these games!”

“Unlike a certain someone I know,” Arthur joined in, nudging Guinevere with his elbow as the bat huffed and crossed her arms. In front of her on the table was a pile of white game markers. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at military strategy, being from G.U.N?”

“Only when the strategies make sense!” she retorted, prompting a laugh from her husband and Gaheris. “I swear, you all have the most nonsensical ideas when it comes to war strategies!”

“Guin, just admit that you’re bad at it--”

“I am bad at  _ nothing _ and you know it.”

“You backed yourself into a corner when you put all your efforts into claiming the river,” Gaheris pointed out. “Strategically, it’s not particularly useful unless you have a large amount of troops, and when we’re just beginning--”

“It doesn’t matter. None of you could even begin to understand my plans.”

“Is that why Tristan wiped you out in five turns?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the massive amounts of brown markers on the map, and Guinevere only pouted in response.

It had started several months ago: Gaheris, being a big fan of board games and pen and paper games, had started little gatherings for the knights and anyone else inclined to play along. Guinevere had dubbed these gatherings as ‘Game Knights’, and the name had stuck. Though the players differed every time, Percival and Galahad attended every last one, and more often than not, it ended up with one player dominating any strategy game that Gaheris had thought up.

It was a fun respite from everyday duties and monotonous routines, and on nights such as these, where there were more than six players, it made observing just as fun as playing.

Before long, despite Percival’s assistance and her own cleverness, the teens were eliminated, as well as Arthur and Gaheris, and it was just Tristan facing off against the team of Kay and Lamorak.

“Give it up, Tris,” Lamorak jeered. “Kay and I will obliterate you before you even get close to our territory!”

“More like you’ve doomed yourselves,” came a new voice, and everyone turned to see Dindrane hovering, looking down at the board with calculating eyes. “You’ve spread yourself too thin. See?” She pointed down where the brown markers had a clear shot to a scant amount of yellow and green ones. “Once she gets through there, your territory is divided and you’re a pair of sitting ducks.”

Lamorak’s eyes went wide as he scrambled to think of a plan, but Kay’s eyes followed Dindrane’s finger, seeming to figure out what she was getting at. He turned to the hawk and said, “I think we lost.”

“We didn’t lose!” Lamorak protested. “We won’t lose until the game is over, so remember that!”

The albatross seemed to brighten up at that. “Right!”

To his credit, Kay was still in good spirits even as Tristan overpowered them three turns later and won.

“I’m glad you didn’t show up any sooner,” Tristan remarked to Dindrane as Gaheris cleared off the map and the markers. “With your help, those two might have had a chance.”

“Hmm… Maybe,” Dindrane remarked as she sat down at the table. Gaheris took out a deck of cards and started shuffling them. “Blackjack up next?”

“If you’d like,” Gaheris replied, setting the deck down in front of him. “I doubt Lancelot would want me to teach the young ones how to play poker.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve played a good game of cards,” Guinevere mused. “Gambling or otherwise.”

“Then it’s settled,” Tristan decided, and nods and murmurs of assent went across the table as Gaheris started to deal the cards.

Arthur picked up his cards, glancing at them quickly before he heard footsteps coming from behind. “Excuse me one moment,” he said, standing up and sliding his cards forward. “You can count this round as my loss.” With that, he dashed from the table over to the hall in the blink of an eye, much to the surprise of the woman standing there.

“Hello there, Vivien,” Arthur greeted, extending a hand. “Care to join us?”

Vivien seemed mildly stunned at his suggestion, mouth parting before closing again, and she brushed some hair out of her face. “I do not know… I doubt I would be very entertaining.”

“That does not matter,” Arthur insisted, keeping his hand outstretched. “The game is what is supposed to be fun. Being around others… that’s what helps us form bonds, no matter who we are. I know you’re still getting used to living here, and I’m sure sitting in will help. Won’t you give it a try?”

The woman looked away, mulling it over, before looking back at the hand offered to her. She took it with a quiet “okay”, and Arthur grinned, pulling her over to the table.

“Pull up a new chair,” he ordered. “We’ve got our newest Game Knight right here!”

And as Vivien proved absurdly lucky, winning three rounds of Blackjack in a row, Arthur was sure that he could see her begin to relax and enjoy herself around them, all through that magical unifying quality that games had.

There was nothing better than a good night of fun with friends, after all.


	20. Lovers (Arthur & Lancelot)

Sparks flew as two swords collided, their owners staring challengingly into each other’s eyes. One sported a grin, the other a focused frown, as their blades flew apart and they both jumped away, calculating their next plan of attack.

Sparring with Lancelot was always a fun respite from everyday governance, and it never failed to put a smile on Arthur’s face. Deep in the woods, away from the eyes of the others, the two practiced their swordsmanship, pushing the other to his limits, growing and improving together. Out of respect for Arthur and in the spirit of fairness, Lancelot had removed his helmet and chest armor to face off with him, and Arthur saw every muscle in his arms ripple as he swung his blade, saw every little calculating shift in his eyes.

He _loved_ it.

It went to show why Lancelot kept his visor down so often, too; the dark knight’s eyes gave away all of his plans. His crimson gaze hardened, and Arthur dodged neatly to the side before Lancelot’s charge forward even got close. Then, as a taunt, he struck out behind him, only to meet Lancelot’s blade. His dear friend had anticipated his move two steps ahead, and the thought made Arthur laugh.

“You know me too well, my dear Lancelot.”

“You’re far too predictable, Arthur.” The sound of his name, bereft of titles and formal addresses, was like music to the king’s ears as he whirled around, quickly stepping out of the way of yet another blow. “Your speed is remarkable, but one cannot win by dodging alone. You won’t wear me out.”

“Oh really?” Arthur challenged with a mischievous grin. “Not at all? Because I seem to recall only a few nights ago when I--”

Lancelot’s hands fumbled and Arondight slipped out of his grasp, only for the knight to catch it in midair and hold it in a defensive position. His face had gone as red as his eyes and Arthur was living for it. “Y-You! You dirty cheat! Don’t say such things when… when…”

“When we’re alone?” Arthur teased in response, aiming a jab which Lancelot easily parried. “Then when else can I say them?” Lancelot’s eyes widened and shifted all over the place, trying their hardest not to look directly back at him, and Arthur took the opportunity to take a step closer. “After all, I do so love to see that handsome face of yours become so--”

“What did I say about being a dirty cheat?” Lancelot snapped, his fingers tightening around his sword, and Arthur laughed again.

“What? All I did was call you handsome!”

A growl left his opponent’s mouth, his teeth bared in a snarl, the redness of his cheeks making his scar stand out against his face. Arthur couldn’t take back his compliment even if he wanted to.

“I swear I’ll… I’ll make you stop, even if I have to hold my sword to your neck to do it!” Lancelot shot back. A hollow threat, and Arthur knew it; Lancelot had never been able to keep his sword pointed at him for long.

But he responded to the threat in kind, eyes glimmering with the challenge. “I’ll make you eat those words.”

Their match resumed, their swords clashing against each other with Arthur making more of an effort to fight back rather than keep dodging. Lancelot was incredibly strong, most of his strikes causing Arthur to skid backwards as they met his own blade, and Arthur felt the rush of adrenaline and excitement that came with battle, a welcome feeling amidst the rising uncertainty and pressures that came with running a kingdom under the threat of an invasion at any point. To spar with Lancelot like this was so freeing, it felt as though his soul was singing and he was flying on his feet, without any thoughts of Saxons to ruin his day.

A surge of joy rushed through him, the inevitable result of enjoying his time with the one he loved, and in an inspired move, Arthur dodged once more, using one hand to swing around a tree trunk. Predictably, Lancelot followed him, but with a second swing around, Arthur had made his way behind his knight, and with one more move, he had him pinned against the trunk with his sword to his neck. The force of the impact caused a few loose quills to shed to the ground, but neither paid those any mind as they stared at one another.

Arthur lowered his sword. “I win,” he gloated, sheathing the blade while keeping Lancelot pinned in place with one arm. He knew his friend was strong enough to escape easily, yet when he looked back up at him, the dark hedgehog’s head was lowered in shame.

“Lance? Is something the matter?”

The knight's face rose again, though he turned his face away. “I must get better,” Lancelot muttered, his body tensing under Arthur’s arm. “I must get better reflexes and focus, better strategies… If I cannot protect you, then what kind of knight am I?”

Arthur sighed in exasperation. _This again._ “Lance, do I really have to say it?”

“That I’m still your best knight?” Red eyes fixed on his face, mollifying him more than they should. “I know that’s what you’re about to say.”

“Because it’s true,” Arthur insisted, much gentler now. His arm fell from Lancelot’s chest, but neither moved from his position. Instead, Arthur’s hands raised to cup Lancelot’s face, and even through his gauntlets, he swore he could feel his knight’s face burn under his touch. “Even if you’re never satisfied with yourself, know that I always will be.”

Lancelot’s eyes darted to the side, his face growing red anew, and his own hand raised to cover one of Arthur’s as the king stroked his thumb along the scar on his knight’s face. Lancelot’s eyes slid closed as he lost himself in bliss, and Arthur’s heart pounded at the effect he caused in such a powerful, incredible, strong-willed, kind-hearted man as his Lancelot.

“You truly are handsome.”

The corners of Lancelot’s mouth quirked in a semi-smile, and the sight delighted Arthur to the heavens and beyond. “Such a gorgeous smile…”

“I’m not smiling,” Lancelot protested, eyes opening as he smiled wider, and Arthur felt the remainder of his self-restraint crumble.

He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over the knight’s lips, and Lancelot stiffened for a moment before raising both hands, fingers slipping though Arthur’s spines in an unspoken gesture of consent, and with that, their lips met. Once, twice, thrice… The slow, languid kisses were like an addiction, where one was never enough, and the gentle brush of their noses was one of the only things anchoring them to reality as joy sparked between them.

Breaking apart was inevitable, but always a disappointment, yet, Arthur couldn’t help but feel pleased at the faraway, lovestruck look in Lancelot’s eyes. Brushing his thumb against the scar one more time, he murmured, “Told you I’d make you eat those words.”

For a split second, Lancelot’s eyes clouded with confusion, and then widened as he remembered Arthur’s earlier taunt. To Arthur’s incredible delight, Lancelot’s smile returned, and then evolved into a soft laugh, and it was akin to being struck by lightning, because _dear Chaos,_ there was no sound more glorious on earth or in the heavens than Lancelot’s laugh. Arthur stared, enthralled, as Lancelot's laughter only increased in intensity, his own heartbeat speeding up to record levels.

He loved him. By the gods above, he loved this man. Lancelot always looked at him as though he were the sun, but…

But what was a sun without his world?

The thought was like an arrow through the chest. Lancelot, his closest friend, his most trusted knight, the love of his life, his world… Right before him, laughing at his jokes, red-faced and embarrassed but not hiding away from him. For the second time that day, Arthur felt his self-control crumble and melt away as he leaned forth again, pressing his lips against Lancelot’s cheek, along the scar.

The knight’s laughter halted, transforming into gasps, and his fingers dug into his spines again, pulling him forth, closer. Arthur’s hands fell from Lancelot’s face, choosing to wrap around his body instead, pulling him as near to him as possible as their lips met in a fiery kiss. Arthur felt Lancelot’s weight shift in his grasp, his knight going weak in the knees at the unrestrained display of passion, and he felt another flutter of delight at the effect he had on him.

The Ultimate Knight. The strongest of all at the Round Table. Slayer of armies, battler of countless foes… coming absolutely undone by him, and him alone.

It was an absolute  _ honor  _ to be able bring him to that point. It was a  _ privilege  _ to see Lancelot so vulnerable, to be trusted so completely by him, and Arthur cherished it beyond what he could convey with words, so he spoke instead with his actions, with his arms holding him tight and his lips speaking without words as they pressed against his lover’s.  Even as they broke apart for breath, Arthur didn’t let go; his hold on Lancelot stayed strong, and their foreheads rested together as their eyes blinked open, glazed over and seeing nothing but the other.

Arthur’s fingers lightly massaged at his knight’s back as he wondered what to say next. He didn’t want to hold back when it came to showering Lancelot with affection; the knight had gone through far too much, waited far too long for him… and Arthur wanted to give him everything he could, whenever he could.

But before he could even get a word forward, a third voice reminded them that they weren’t in fact, alone.

“Are you two quite done?” came the irritated voice of Caliburn from Arthur’s hip, and two pairs of eyes went wide as Lancelot broke out of Arthur’s hold, his face even redder than before.

Arthur bit back a disappointed sigh, frowning down at his sword. “Oh Caliburn,” he taunted as Lancelot scrambled away to put his armor back on. “If you keep interrupting me, I’ll start thinking you want to join in.”

“What I want,” the sword replied, terse and tired, “is to go _one day_ without having to watch you two all over each other. It’s no fault of mine if you forget that I’m still around, yet I must suffer the consequences.”

Arthur laughed lightly as Lancelot made his way back toward them. “Fine, fine… I’ll try to remember from now on.”

“You say that every time,” the sword grumbled. “In any case, it’s time you head back. I won’t be providing any excuses for you if you are to face consequences for staying out longer than allowed for your _private time_.”

“Of course, Caliburn,” Arthur returned, yet no sense of urgency made its way into his voice. Instead he patted the hilt of the blade with one hand as the other gripped on to his knight’s. Lancelot, in turn, slammed his visor down, and Arthur could only imagine the look of embarrassment on his lover’s face.

Together, they walked back to the castle. They could have run, have made certain that they made it back with time to spare, but neither wanted to. With or without interruptions, this was their time to spend together, and they were going to make the most of it.

* * *

High up in the trees, a dark figure watched the two hedgehogs leave with gentle surprise. “Incredible,” he murmured to himself as he slid down from the branches, an incorporeal mist of darkness, down to the base of the tree where he had seen them display their affections. “To think that I would find  _ him  _ here, of all places… just as I have found her.”

The mist stopped before the shed quills on the ground, wrapping itself around one of the black ones as it began to shift and change. The vapor condensed, forming a torso and limbs, and up above, a head took shape, with long, upturned spines. Pale gray stripes appeared along the new body, and from the middle of the face, a pair of dull green eyes blinked open. The creature held up a hand, observing the new form, and hummed in interest, despite lacking a mouth.

“If nothing else… this should persuade  _ him  _ to listen to what I have to say.”

Yet the being hesitated, glancing back down at the discarded quills at his feet. Cautiously, he picked up three more; one black, two blue.

“Extra proof,” he murmured as he put the black quill away. “As for these…” He held the blue quills up to the dying sunlight. “I could use these as a bargaining chip with  _ him…  _ the more pawns, the more players… the more fun this game shall be.”

The dark being stored the rest of the quills away, a dastardly chuckle leaving his being as he faded back into mist and departed from Avalon. Now was the time to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO'S READY FOR THE SEQUEL?
> 
> Thank you all for reading this piece. It was a lot of fun to expand on the other knights and people living in the castle, and it was good practice for the upcoming sequel. Expect Return to Avalon to come around later this month!
> 
> Until then, catch you next time!
> 
> ~Smash 50


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